


Undaunted

by dracoqueen22



Series: Crown the Empire [12]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: BDSM Themes Mentioned, Bonding ceremony, Celebrations, Festivals, M/M, Moral and Ethical Discussions, Multi, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2019-03-04 01:55:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 37,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13354062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: It’s only been five years, but for a society ravaged by war and desperation, it might as well be a lifetime. What better way to encourage the lasting peace but with a celebration to last all through the night?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NK (NKfloofiepoof)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NKfloofiepoof/gifts).



> There are dozens of characters and pairings in this fic, and rather than clog the tags with every last one of them, since this is an ensemble fic, I'll mark who's present at the top of each chapter. 
> 
> For this chapter:  
> Pairings: Optimus/Soundwave, Hound/Ravage  
> Characters: Optimus, Soundwave, Hound, Trailbreaker, Ravage, Ultra Magnus, Xaaron, Kup, Motormaster, Dragstrip

Five years barely counted as a blip in the lifetime of a Cybertronian, but Optimus had spent too much time on Earth. He’d grown too used to the human way of marking time, and so much had happened to him so quickly now, that five years seemed far longer than it aught.   
  
This wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.   
  
Five years since the end of the war, since the brief enslavement of the Autobots, since Megatron’s death at the hands of Grimlock, since Cybertron and all of its inhabitants had moved into a new status quo. Autobots, Decepticons, and Neutrals alike, all sharing what little bit of the planet was habitable, forging new paths together.   
  
Soon, Optimus wagered, they would be rid of badges altogether. Eventually, they would truly be one people again.   
  
Five years was plenty of time now to change many things. It just wasn’t enough time to change everything. Which was acceptable, in Optimus’ opinion, so long as they had forward motion. Continuous forward motion.   
  
“Optimus brooding again?”   
  
“I am not,” Optimus retorted, but it lacked any heat. He turned his head, offering a gentle smile to his partner. “If anything, I am reflecting.”   
  
“Same meaning.” Soundwave swept a polishing cloth over the back of Optimus’ shoulders, the gentle rub of the mesh making Optimus’ armor tingle. “This not good day?”   
  
Optimus hummed and leaned back toward Soundwave, soaking in his embrace. Soundwave, former Decepticon and now his Director of Security, was all too willing to accept it, the polishing cloth laid aside as he wrapped his arms around Optimus from behind. The polishing was a formality at this point anyway. Optimus was as shiny as he could get.   
  
“It’s a very good day,” he murmured, shuttering his optics and cycling a long ventilation.  
  
Soundwave was very warm and present behind him, his arms a shelter rather than a cage. His field pulsed against Optimus’, bright with affection and pride. He pressed his head against Optimus’, his engine purring.   
  
“I was, in fact, reflecting on why it is,” Optimus added as he turned and pressed a kiss to the corner of Soundwave’s mouth. He always kept his battlemask open when they were alone now. So much so that Optimus often startled to see him wear it in public.   
  
The battlemask, for both of them, was removed from who they were now.   
  
“Not brooding then.” Soundwave’s lips flirted over the curve of Optimus’ jaw. “Celebrating.”   
  
“Mmm. Of a sort.” Optimus shivered as Soundwave pressed several small kisses down the side of his intake.   
  
It would be all too easy to just stay here, wouldn’t it? To surrender to Soundwave’s embrace, stumble over to their berth, and love on his partner until the sun set and fireworks lit the night.   
  
But Optimus was still Prime until voted otherwise or another was found, and that meant he had responsibilities. Fortunately, for today, all of his responsibilities were good ones. Besides, he would hate to disappoint Hound. The tracker had waited long enough. He and Ravage both, in fact.   
  
Optimus turned his head toward Soundwave’s, capturing the former Decepticon’s lips with his own, savoring the sweet kiss. He sighed into it as Soundwave’s hands stroked down his arms, leaving tingles in their wake, and Soundwave’s field nudged his, ripe and warm and loving.   
  
“Optimus is tempting,” Soundwave murmured against his mouth, head tilted against his in a nuzzle.   
  
“So are you.” Optimus chuckled and made himself withdraw, though his spark hummed and twirled happily. “But we both have obligations that neither of us wish to miss, and so we most refrain.”   
  
A laugh rattled out of Soundwave’s chassis. “Unfortunate but true.” Soundwave leaned back and flicked the polishing cloth toward the recycle bin. It would be collected later, washed, dried, and folded to be reused.   
  
They had learned not to be wasteful. The war had taught them as much.   
  
“And you?” Optimus asked as he turned toward Soundwave, capturing his partner’s hand and drawing it up to his lips. “I know letting Ravage go was hard even then. Giving her to another permanently is a different matter entirely, yes?”   
  
Soundwave’s field softened. “Ravage missed,” he admitted, and his thumb brushed over Optimus’ wrist. “But Ravage’s happiness to be celebrated.”   
  
“Yes, it is.” Optimus brushed his lips over Soundwave’s knuckles and felt the loving touch of Soundwave’s field against his. “And right now, I am happy for every celebration we manage.”   
  
Agreement echoed in Soundwave’s field. He leaned in, as though intending to kiss Optimus once more, but a chime rang throughout their shared quarters, startling them both.   
  
“And that would be Jazz,” Optimus said with a chuckle. “Here to remind us that we are expected to be somewhere.” He reluctantly loosed his grip on Soundwave’s hand, though the desire to cuddle his partner on the berth rang strongly through him.   
  
“Jazz often inconvenient,” Soundwave commented.   
  
“I think he prides himself on having the perfect – or in our case awkward – timing.” Optimus laughed again and moved to the door, thumbing the panel so that it would slide open. “Good evening, Jazz.”   
  
“Heya, OP!” the black and white mech, still ostensibly Optimus’ third in command and head of a no-longer-necessary Special Ops unit, sauntered inside with a bebop to his step. “I ain’t interruptin’ anythin’ am I?” He leaned past Optimus to give a pointed look to Soundwave.   
  
“Nothing that didn’t need to be drawing to an end anyway,” Optimus replied, bemusement thick in his field. “Were you worried I would be late?”   
  
Jazz grinned, his visor sparkling. “Nah. You and Sounders both are impeccably punctual mechs. I just thought I’d walk with ya.”   
  
“And fill me in, I assume, on something important,” Optimus mused aloud. He gave his third a fond look before he turned toward Soundwave. “Are you ready?”   
  
“Affirmative.” Soundwave stepped up beside him. “Name: Soundwave.”   
  
“I know that.” Jazz’s smile was cheeky as always. It was a point of contention between the two, this insistence on mangling Soundwave’s name.   
  
Optimus often wondered if it even bothered Soundwave anymore, and he only made a growl about it because it was part of the game he and Jazz played. For they indulged in many of them, most of which Optimus knew he was not privy to. Soundwave and Jazz did not dislike each other.   
  
On the contrary, they seemed to have formed something of a cabal, one fully invested in Optimus’ good health. It could be irritating, when they worked in tandem to ensure he was well rested and well fueled and well-maintained.   
  
Optimus shook his head and eased out of his quarters, knowing Soundwave and Jazz would follow without having to be told. Best not to get in the middle of them. He’d learned to let them handle their own squabbles, no matter how much it might sound like they were two seconds from clawing each other’s optics out.   
  
Starscream’s words, not his. The Seeker found it endlessly amusing, though sometimes Optimus did catch Starscream shooting Jazz the most sympathetic looks. As if Optimus was the most difficult mech in the room.   
  
“What do you have to report?” Optimus asked, once they were in the hall, Soundwave at his right and Jazz at his left, seemingly unbothered by walking alongside two mechs who cast large shadows.   
  
“Nothin’ too serious, so don’t get your struts all bent outta shape,” Jazz said, his field warm where it brushed against Optimus’. “Just gotta echo on our forward sensors. Thinkin’ another ship comin’ home to roost.”   
  
“Are they claiming a badge?”   
  
“Dunno. Hadn’t heard a peep from them. Might want to get yer loverboy on it.”   
  
Optimus bit back a sigh, even as Soundwave’s engine grumbled with irritation. “Blaster was unable to establish contact?”   
  
“He tried, but they ain’t answerin’. Might be ‘cause they’re Cons wantin’ to come in from the cold and don’t believe ole Screamer’s tale of woe.” Jazz shrugged, but didn’t look the least bit concerned. “Sensors say it’s a small ship, probably ten, twenty bots. No matter who’s aboard, we can take ‘em. Still, better ta be prepared.”   
  
Optimus made a noncommittal noise and looked at Soundwave, sliding his fingers into his mate’s. “You do have a better reputation than Starscream,” he said. “Perhaps you can convince them to identify themselves?”   
  
“Attempt will be made.” Soundwave tipped his head in a decisive nod. “After festival.”   
  
“Of course.”   
  
They emerged from the residential quarters into a crisp evening, the street lamps casting a pale glow down on the refurbished roads of Polyhex. Emergency runners – always lit – and the lighted buildings helped illuminate the night, as stars twinkled above them. It was a good, clear night, without threat of acid storm in sight.   
  
The perfect evening for a celebration.   
  
Perceptor had reassured Optimus they were getting closer to figuring out how to navigate Cybertron toward a star that would once again provide them solar power and help stabilize their seasons.   
  
It was easier, he’d commented, now that they were more focused on science and advancement, then war and death. Especially since he could pluck the minds of those Neutral and Decepticon alike. He’d formed something of a close friendship with Quark, one of the Neutrals, and Brainstorm, who had arrived with Ultra Magnus’ unit five years prior.   
  
“I shall be glad when we can finally abandon these badges,” Optimus commented, to one in particular, merely an observation.   
  
He was relieved to find that the few mechs they passed in the streets were a variety of all three: Autobot, Decepticon, and badgeless Neutral. But he still lamented that they needed to label themselves.   
  
“Only when we can cast those aside and stand together, will we truly be one,” Optimus added and vented a sigh. “That, I fear, is still a long time coming.”   
  
“Hey, we’re getting better.” Jazz nudged him with an elbow, his field turned soft and comforting. “We’re miles from where we were, and we still got miles to go, but it’s the progress that counts, right?”   
  
Optimus smiled and rested a hand on Jazz’s shoulder, giving it a pat. “Indeed. The progress, I believe, is worth more than everything.”   
  
Soundwave squeezed Optimus’ hand as if to offer agreement, his field warm and tender where it brushed against Optimus’ own.   
  
Optimus was determined to do whatever necessary means to ensure they did not return to the conditions which sparked war in the first place. He never again wanted to see his mechs suffer through war.   
  
They had all suffered enough.   
  


~

  
  
Hound fidgeted.   
  
As much as he tried to comport himself with some measure of dignity, he couldn’t stop fidgeting. His armor rattled. His spark thrummed. His field was a wild mess. His fingers kept tangling tightly together until his knuckle joints creaked.   
  
Behind him, sweeping a soft buffer cloth over those fiddly spots Hound couldn’t reach, Trailbreaker chuckled. “Are you nervous?”   
  
Hound ducked his head, feeling heat steal into his face. “Why should I be? This is a formality. We’re already one where it counts.”   
  
“Yes, but...”  
  
“I’m nervous,” Hound finished for him. The admission seemed to ease some of his anxiety, and the clattering in his armor quieted. He looked into the mirror in front of him, seeing Trailbreaker behind him, steady and unwavering. “I’m nervous, Trails.”   
  
A soft smile curved his best friend’s lips. “I know.” The buffing cloth was tossed aside as Trailbreaker leaned forward, embracing Hound from behind. “It’ll go perfectly. Trust me.”   
  
“I do.” Hound lay a hand over one of Trailbreaker’s, drawing strength from his field, from his warmth, familiar and welcome. “I believe you. I just… I never thought I’d be happy again. But here I am.”   
  
After the end of the war, after losing the war, after finding himself captured by the Decepticons, given over to their voracious appetites of humiliation and degradation…   
  
There had been times he’d longed for death. There’d been moments he would have clawed his own spark out if only to end the pain. When he’d drowned in his own hopelessness, sinking further into the dark, until a pair of crimson optics, peering at him from a small vent, reminded him he wasn’t alone.   
  
He only had to be patient. To wait. That his dear one wouldn’t leave him like this. Victory would be found, however late. He could be free again. If she could survive it, so could he.   
  
If not for Ravage…   
  
Hound would be dead. He knew this with certainty. If she had not come to him, in some of his darkest hours, whispering softly through the vents while Hound’s rapists snored in their exhausted recharge, Hound would have ripped out his own spark.   
  
She had saved him in more ways than one.   
  
“Here you are indeed,” Trailbreaker echoed, giving him a strong squeeze of an embrace, one that made Hound’s armor creak and air squeeze out of his vents. He chuckled, because that was what Trailbreaker did and it was comfort to him. “Shining like a newforged. About to be officially mated to the love of your life. Sounds perfect, if you ask me.”   
  
Hound grinned, the last of his tension whooshing away with Trailbreaker’s hug. “So long as I don’t show myself to be a graceless idiot and trip over my own two feet.”   
  
Trailbreaker’s rolling laugh vibrated both of their frames. “Even if you did, it wouldn’t be any less perfect.” He sounded so certain, so steadfast.   
  
Hound’s spark throbbed, swollen with love and affection for Trailbreaker, his best and closest friend, somewhere between brother and mate, without the intimacy of romance.   
  
He gently turned in Trailbreaker’s embrace and cupped a hand around Trailbreaker’s head. “You’re too tall,” he teased as he pulled Trailbreaker down, pressing their foreheads together.   
  
“Maybe you’re just short,” Trailbreaker teased in return.   
  
Hound’s smile was soft as it curved his lips. “I want to thank you, too,” he said, quite sure he could say it a thousand times and it still wouldn’t be enough. “You held me together just as much as she did. You’ve been my rock for all these years, and I don’t know what I did to deserve that. I’m just glad for it.”   
  
Trailbreaker’s field blushed, and he shifted his weight. “Aw, now you’re getting mushy,” he said, tone abashed. “You’re my friend, Hound. And you don’t make me feel like I’m weird or an outcast. For that, I’d do anything.”  
  
“You’re not weird. You’re just you.” Hound rested his hands on Trailbreaker’s shoulders and looked up at his dearest friend. “So… thanks. All right? I wouldn’t have made it without you either.”   
  
Trailbreaker’s face heated, light dancing across his visor. He ducked his head as if trying to make himself smaller, as he often did. He had always existed in a curious state of not wanting to be noticed, but desperate to be recognized.   
  
“What’s this? Canoodling behind my back?”   
  
Hound rolled his optics as he turned his head, though he left his hands on Trailbreaker’s shoulders. “Canoodling,” he echoed. “Since when have you decided that was a word you could bear to say?”   
  
“Oh, I’ve grown rather fond of it now,” Ravage purred as she hopped onto the nearby bench, her armor gleaming like polished onyx. She sniffed theatrically. “I feel left out now, the two of you in here cuddling while I pace in the hallway waiting for a rather tardy Prime.”   
  
Hound snickered. “Something tells me a certain laconic mech may be to blame for that.” He stepped out of Trailbreaker’s embrace, but didn’t get very far before Trailbreaker tugged him back and tackled one of his arms with a polishing cloth.   
  
Ravage lifted her chin, her optics flashing warmly at him. “Soundwave arrives precisely when he means to. If anyone is the cause, it’s your Prime.”   
  
“Wait a minute, isn’t it supposed to be bad luck for the groom to see the bride?” Trailbreaker asked, his voice rich with humor.   
  
Ravage shot him a flat look. “Call me a bride one more time, and we’ll see how durable your armor is to my claws.”   
  
Hound chuckled and expanded his field, enveloping them both in it. The repartee was nothing more than witty teasing, he knew. Five years in each other’s company had made the two rather disparate Cybertronians come to something of an accord. Ravage had all but adopted Trailbreaker as one of her own.   
  
“Truthfully, I think we’ve exhausted a lifetime’s worth of bad luck for our relationship. We should be fine,” Hound said. He reached for Ravage with his field, since Trailbreaker’s grip on his arm was quite firm. “I’m worried about nothing.”   
  
It was almost surprising how true that was.   
  
Sometimes, the anxiety caught him in the wee hours of the night, when he was most vulnerable, trusting and in recharge. It stole into his dreams, woke him screaming and thrashing, but those were few and far between now.   
  
Mostly these days… he felt a peace. A contentment. The war was over, and they’d paid a terrible price for that end, but still, the truth remained. The war was over, they lived in a peace growing more solid by the year, Earth would rise again, as would the humans, and Hound was about to publicly announce his bond to the love of his entire functioning.   
  
“Neither am I,” Trailbreaker said cheerfully, with one last swipe of his cloth. “And you’re as shiny as I can make ya.”   
  
Hound grinned, turned, and pressed a kiss to Trailbreaker’s cheek. “Thanks.” He turned to look at Ravage, without bothering to hide the affection swelling in his field. “Are you ready to do this?”   
  
Ravage rose up with a languid stretch of her back, her armor fluffing and settling around her, as shiny as a new penny. “I’ve been ready for millennia.”   
  
Truer words had yet been spoken.   
  


~

  
  
“If you boys get any slower, you’ll start driving backward!”   
  
Kup’s laughter nearly drowned out the twin snarls of anger and shouts of “shut up!” from the two mechs who had been trusted to his supervision. Though perhaps supervision was the wrong word.   
  
Kup had a soft spot for mechs like these. Former Decepticons. Younglings really. Newsparks brought into Megatron’s influence before they knew what was what, taught that only Megatron knew the right way, taught to fear and hate before they knew what it meant to tolerate and love.   
  
Mechs like the Stunticons.   
  
Once Kup had heard how they came into being, he’d been outraged. Just where had Megatron been stashing those stolen frames? How dare he steal sparks to turn them into monsters? How dare he ruin what hadn’t had a chance to grow?   
  
Megatron knew how to speak pretty words. To twist lies into truth. What had he told them, to make them hate the Autobots so much? How hard had he fanned their rage? He’d kept them ignorant, of course, because dumb soldiers were obedient soldiers. And they’d only ever known what they’d been taught.   
  
If Megatron told them to jump, they’d ask how high and how far. They loathed Optimus, not because of something Optimus had done, but because Megatron loathed him. Though, in Motormaster’s case, his reasoning was a bit more personal.   
  
One would have to be stupid to miss the similarities. The same alt-mode. Similar frame design. Megatron had opted to change Motormaster’s color, to give him a few bits of kibble, but the truth was there, writ in Motormaster’s existence.   
  
Megatron wanted Optimus, obedient and subservient. He settled for Motormaster. Kup didn’t ask his new charge how often Motormaster had spent in his master’s berth. He didn’t have to. He knew the answer.   
  
So the Stunticons didn’t know any better. That wasn’t an excuse. It didn’t get them off the hook, but it explained a lot. They were sparks that could be saved. Kup was sure of it. Just look at Breakdown! Kid had already seen the light.   
  
He’d been the gentlest of them from the start, Kup figured. Probably the one the others beat down when he didn’t hop to obey fast enough. He’d learned to keep his mouth shut. He’d hated, too, just a little, and that hate fed into resentment and anxiety and fear. Powerful motivators, those emotions were.   
  
There were only three Stunticons left. One was making a good run of it, on his own, attached hip and hip to that Decepticon medic and their shared Dinobot. Breakdown would be all right without any convincing on Kup’s part.   
  
But the last two, Motormaster and Drag Strip, they were stubborn afts. It just so happened Kup liked stubborn afts. He liked seeing what they were made of, deep down inside, down past the indoctrination and the hate.   
  
They could be saved. He was sure of it. Rehabilitated, maybe, was the word. Either way, Kup wasn’t going to give up on them without a fight. No one had ever given them two shakes in the world. They’d been sparked into an existence of hatred. They needed the chance to see the light, not thrown to rust in the dark like Barricade.   
  
Now that was a mech who was never going to learn. That was a mech rotten to the core of his spark. Kup had advised they take Barricade out back, put him down like the rabid scraplet he was. Optimus had changed a lot, but not enough to argue for execution. So Barricade lived, locked away in his prison cell.   
  
It would have to be enough.   
  
Motormaster and Drag Strip though, Kup had put his foot down. Someone had to do it. And if he couldn’t, well, he didn’t think there was a mech alive who could.   
  
Kup was old. Older than anyone knew how to count. If he couldn’t help these mechs see what a real future they could have, maybe no one could. And because Kup was old, he didn’t see badges.   
  
Those boys, they’d behaved badly. Very badly. Unforgivably, depending who you asked. But it was hard to blame a child for misbehaving if their parent didn’t tell them not to. They had to learn what they did was wrong, before they could learn not to do it again, or even realize they needed to ask forgiveness. Just telling them they were wrong wasn’t going to do it either.   
  
Not for these boys.   
  
They’d spent too long hearing Megatron as the word of Primus and Unicron and all the little gods in between. Peeling them apart would take time. Finesse. And sometimes, a good, old-fashioned aft-kicking. Fortunately, Kup was skilled and had plenty of all three.   
  
“Hurry up!” Kup barked again, and took a puff of his cygar, the filtered medicines filling his vents with a cool wash. “You’re going to miss the festivities at this rate. And make me miss ‘em, too. And do ya have any idea what’s gonna happen if I don’t get my promised mug of engex from Springer?”   
  
“I can guess,” Drag Strip said sourly as he finally came into view, the length of a thick, heavy chain slung over one shoulder as he soldiered onward, manually tugging a flatbed of supplies for Cybertron.   
  
Motormaster was just behind him, his flatbed piled thrice as high.  
  
Oh, it would’ve been much easier if Kup let them tow the flatbeds in their alt-modes. But the easy route meant they didn’t learn anything. Like the value of good, hard labor. Working with your own two feet and hands to build what you helped break.   
  
Kup planted his hands on his hips and cocked his head to the side. “You want to smart off to me again? Or do you wanna race tonight?”   
  
Drag Strip’s gaze fell. His lips twisted into a scowl, and he muttered something that might have been an apology, if Kup was feeling generous. Well, it was progress. At least he’d stopped trying to run away.   
  
Coming up the hill behind Drag Strip, Motormaster’s mouth was set in a mutinous line. His optics bled murder, his hands clenched around the double chains draped over his shoulders. The flatbed’s wheels creaked and rattled, weighted down as it was by the mined materials they were hauling to Cybertron.   
  
The spacebridge was another ten miles away.   
  
“Just shut up, Drag Strip,” Motormaster muttered, though it lacked heat. Anger boiled inside of him, but it was an exhausted anger. A resigned one.   
  
Felt abandoned, that one did. Felt betrayed by his master. A couple more nudges, and Kup knew he could get Motormaster to start thinking for himself. Drag Strip was just being impertinent because he could. Kid was scared, worried about his future, hated being thought of as weak, hated even more that he was pitied.   
  
Neither of them had apologized for their abysmal behavior and treatment of the Autobots they’d assaulted. It would come in time. Kup was sure of it. Consent was still a tricky subject. They both labored under the misconception so common in Decepticons under Megatron’s spell.   
  
If you were strong enough to take it, it was yours. No one had ever explained that just because you could do something, didn’t necessarily mean that you should.   
  
Kup would get it through their thick heads eventually. He’d only had them for half a year after all. The lessons were only beginning.   
  
“You shut up,” Drag Strip retorted, but it sounded reflexive. Right now, all they had was each other, since Breakdown abandoned them.   
  
Their words, not Kup’s.   
  
He’d told them, you want to be like your brother, you want to actually enjoy life rather than rot in a cell, then you can come with me. He’d given them that choice. They’d taken it. They’d assumed, wrongly, it would be an easier life than prison.   
  
They could go back to prison if they wanted. Funny how neither of them seemed keen on taking that opportunity. They whined about how much they were suffering, despite only doing as much work as any other free mech on New Cybertron trying to rebuild their planet as quickly as possible.   
  
Children. They were sparklings through and through. How could Kup look at them with anything but pity? Hate would’ve been easier, but forgiveness… Ah. Now there was a tough fight. Kup had always preferred those anyway.   
  
Kup leaned over and grabbed the chain attached to his own flatbed. Alright, maybe his load was a bit lighter. He was old and rusty. Of course he couldn’t keep up with the younglings. And that was his excuse if anyone asked.   
  
“Come on now,” he urged as he started up the old, unpaved road again, wheels of the flatbed creeping behind him. “Cybertron’s relying on these supplies. And if you make it on time without any more whining, I’ll see what I can do about getting ya both a couple of passes.”   
  
As in, free time away from Kup. They’d still be monitored, as a matter of course, by either an Autobot or Decepticon member of the Unified Cybertronian forces. But it would be a rest day. A chance for leisure without Kup peering over their shoulders.   
  
Both of them perked up at this, and exchanged a commiserating glance. Somehow, they managed to find a spurt of energy, there in the middle of such lazy fatigue, and put some pep in their step.   
  
Kup swallowed down a laugh, but only just.   
  
Worked every time. He’d get these younglings on the right path. He was sure of it.   
  
There was hope for them yet.   
  


~

  
  
Ultra Magnus was not a mech prone to fidgeting. So as he waited outside the main gate to the festival grounds, it was with absolute stillness and ease.   
  
Xaaron was not yet late. If anything, the current Neutral leader was always perfectly punctual. It was something Ultra Magnus greatly appreciated. He felt a leader should always be on time, no matter the circumstances.   
  
Optimus, Ultra Magnus reflected, could always be counted on to be early. Mostly because there was rarely a time Optimus was not working, though that had become different as of late. Romantic entanglements, Ultra Magnus supposed. They served as a distraction.   
  
Optimus still tended to arrive early, but now, more often than not, it was because Soundwave kept him on a tight schedule. A very good assistant that one made, even if he used to be a Decepticon and now had duties of his own. Ultra Magnus suspected that Laserbeak was largely to thank for Optimus’ continued good behavior. She was never far from Optimus’ shoulder.   
  
By contrast, Jazz could always be relied upon to be late. By Ultra Magnus’ standards at any rate. He’d stroll in, a few minutes past the designated time, with ease in his shoulders and a song on his lips. He always looked surprised, too, at Ultra Magnus’ firm look of disapproval. He always grinned.   
  
“Oh, I’m late?” he said and laughed because what was punctuality to a spy? They operated on entirely different timetables.   
  
Grimlock arrived on time to their multi-factional meetings, Starscream at his heels. But there were occasions when the both of them were late. Smug and all too satisfied at that. Ultra Magnus didn’t need an investigative service to know why. Apparently the rumors that they couldn’t keep their hands off each other was true. Lucky for the both of them, Cyclonus could be counted on to arrive precisely on time with a constancy that Ultra Magnus appreciated.   
  
Speaking of punctuality…  
  
Precisely on time, Xaaron strode into view, the gleam of his gold armor nearly outshining that of the street lamps that provided ambient illumination. It was a garish choice for a factional leader, but Ultra Magnus could hardly fault him for it. To each his own.   
  
“Ultra Magnus, good evening,” Xaaron greeted, with a politician’s smile and a politician’s handshake, firm and yielding.   
  
Ultra Magnus tipped his head. “And the same to you.”   
  
They fell into step together, striding through the open gates into the sparsely populated festival grounds. The celebration had yet to officially begin, and those they spotted were running around performing last minute preparations. It gratified Ultra Magnus to see all sorts busily working: Autobot, Decepticon, and the badgeless Neutrals.   
  
Five years was not so long for a Cybertronian, but on New Cybertron, it was apparently long enough to start making a dent in the walls the long war had built.   
  
“Will Metalhawk be attending tonight?” Ultra Magnus asked, more out of courtesy than any genuine interest.   
  
Metalhawk had not attended any of the celebrations for the last four years, despite how small they’d been. Ultra Magnus sincerely doubted Metalhawk would be present for this one. Metalhawk had been a ghost since his arrest and conviction, occasionally outspoken to the Neutrals, but a mostly silent partner otherwise.   
  
Though to call what had emerged the last four years a grand festival would be wildly overstating its grandeur. This year, the fifth year, was truly the first festival they had to celebrate the treaty. In the years before, it had been loosely arranged affairs. Spontaneous, really. And kept mostly inter-factional.   
  
The massive celebration many would attend tonight was actually Xaaron’s master plan. He insisted they all needed something that would bring them together in joy, remind everyone on New Cybertron how far they had come, and what could be accomplished if they set aside their grievances to work together.   
  
“Sadly, he will not,” Xaaran replied with a nearly inaudible sigh. “I’ve explained to him multiple times that his absence does not win him any favors, but he’s quite insistent that he does not belong at any celebration.” Xaaron tucked his hands behind his back. “It is a losing battle.”   
  
“How unfortunate,” Ultra Magnus said, though he did not mean it. He’d always loathed politics, no matter how skilled he was. “Though I must congratulate you. Winning your third election term? That’s quite a feat.”   
  
Xaaron’s head dipped in a show of humility. “I’m honored by their faith in me. I am pleased that I continue to be allowed to serve my citizens to the best of my ability.”   
  
“They’ve elected you three times in a row, with an overwhelming majority I might add.” Ultra Magnus smiled approvingly. “If you ask me, that is proof you are doing an excellent job of it.”   
  
“Thank you.” Xaaron cycled a ventilation and made a point to look around them. “This celebration is very important to the entirety of Cybertron. I had envisioned something grand, but this has surpassed my expectations.”   
  
Ultra Magnus chuckled. “Never let it be said that we’ve lost our ability to have fun. I think everyone has looked forward to a night where we can relax. I’ve already seen bids for several of the evening’s festivities to become a staple in the future.”   
  
“Let me guess: the race and the invitational tournament.”   
  
“The war may be over, but we will always be competitive,” Ultra Magnus confirmed with a small laugh. “Frankly, I prefer that they ease their aggression with such a thing as opposed to attacking one another.”   
  
They passed through a path lined with vendor’s stalls, most of whom would be offering tasty treats and drinks, but also small items to commemorate the occasion. No one was required to work this evening, save those in emergency services, but many of the small-time sellers saw an opportunity they didn’t want to miss. Ultra Magnus hadn’t seen any harm in allowing the pop-up stalls their one night.   
  
“Indeed,” Xaaron said as he paused by one of the stalls. It was almost completely prepared, and the quickly assembled shelves contained a variety of delicate treats. The owner was likely a neutral, given he carried no badge. “As more of our people return, we must rely on those who have already assimilated to help guide them into this new era of peace.”   
  
Xaaron often spoke as though he were reading from some inspirational manuscript. Ultra Magnus attributed that personality tic to the fact he’d been some member of the clergy in the past. One of the Clavis Aurea, Ultra Magnus believed.   
  
He was also right.   
  
More of their scattered citizenry returned by the day. Coming in ships, large and small, Autobot and Decepticon alike. A few had chosen to leave again, unwilling to bend to this yet-uneasy peace. Setting aside past grievances to work near those one had once considered enemies was no easy task. Ultra Magnus could not fault them for their hesitation.   
  
The returning citizens were still only the smallest fraction of what Cybertron had once been. Not even one percent of Cybertron’s population at the height of its glory. They were on the brink of extinction, Ultra Magnus knew.   
  
Not even two thousand mechs lived on New Cybertron now. And without the Allspark, the Well, the Matrix, without any of the traditional or ancient means of reproduction once available to them, in time, Cybertronians as a species would cease to exist. It was a sobering thought.   
  
Though Ultra Magnus held out hope that a solution might be found. Perhaps Primus might one day forgive them, offer a second chance to his descendants.   
  
Or perhaps, for the sake of the universe, it was better that He didn’t.   
  
“I agree,” Ultra Magnus said as they started walking again, moving out of shopper’s row toward the monolith in the center, the memorial similar to the Obelisk in Polyhex, but one for all of Cybertron to honor the fallen in the entirety of the war.   
  
“We may never achieve the greatness of what we once were,” Xaaron said as he clasped his hands behind his back. “And maybe that’s for the best, as what we used to be, is to blame for what we become. So then, the only thing we can do is be better.”   
  
‘Better’ certainly seemed within reach. Ultra Magnus wasn’t keen on repeating the mistakes of the past, and he knew the leadership was not either. All of them were weary of war, and if they looked out for one another and handled events with a rational processor, perhaps they might avoid a disastrous future.   
  
Ultra Magnus inclined his head. “So long as we continue to work together, I think that future is definitely something we achieve.”   
  
Xaaron grinned. “As do I.” He gestured toward a distant building, within walking distance, one freshly built and brightly lit. “Shall we attend the ceremony?”   
  
“Of course.”   
  
And so they did. Bright future and all.   
  


****

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairings: Hound/Ravage, Optimus/Soundwave, Bumblebee/Rumble  
> Characters: Optimus, Hound, Ravage, Jazz, Soundwave, Bumblebee, Rumble, Skybyte
> 
> Chapter Inspiration Song: "The Only Exception," Paramore

Ceremonies. Traditions. Customs. 

All had been lost during the war. Forgotten. Abandoned. Perhaps somewhere in the fractured and rusting libraries on Cybertron were records, step by step explanations of every unique celebration. Perhaps there were speeches and plans, transcripts and videos. 

Remembering their history was a challenge for another decade, Soundwave thought. Right now, they had to focus on surviving, rebuilding, welcoming their exiled brethren home and strengthening the ever-fragile peace. 

The conjunx ceremony was fraught with tradition. It varied, region by region, city by city, sometimes by altmode or caste or function. It was unique, and so long as one followed the four basic steps, it suited. Registering the bonding with the proper authorities made it legitimate in the optics of the court, but it wasn’t necessary. 

They didn’t have a court system right now. They didn’t have a legal process. Hound and Ravage had to do nothing more than declare themselves bonded to their commanding officer and/or respective leader, and update their medical directives, and they would be legitimate. 

They didn’t have to have a ceremony. 

But Hound wanted one. Had asked for one. And then, in a joining of everything he loved, he planned their ceremony from what he could remember of Cybertron – mostly with Mirage’s advice – with added touches of another culture their war had demolished – that of the humans. Specifically, what would have been more common to their human friends, both the ones who had died, and the ones newly found. 

They had wanted to come, these humans Hound and his team had discovered, living off the eastern coast of the United States on a small, self-contained island protected by one of their mad scientist’s experimental defense domes. But Cybertron’s lack of atmosphere made a casual visit impossible, and they lacked the materials to create survival suits for themselves. 

Next time perhaps. Soundwave was certain ‘Doc Greene’, as he liked to be called, would collaborate with Wheeljack nicely, and they would have the ability to visit Cybertron within the next year. 

For now, they would have to settle for a live feed courtesy of Buzzsaw, who had grumbled aloud about being forced to attend the mushy ceremony, but was secretly pleased to be given such an important task. 

Meanwhile, Soundwave had only look to the slightly raised dais to find Laserbeak, on her preferred perch of Optimus’ left shoulder, her optics dimmed as though she’d slipped into recharge. She’d become something of a security blanket for Optimus, a signal of safety and comfort, and neither she nor Soundwave minded. 

So long as she was around, Optimus had confessed, he felt there would always be help. Even if all he needed was a chirr, a warm field, and a hug. 

Laserbeak was more than thrilled and honored to be so relied upon. If Optimus were a carrier, Soundwave might have worried about him stealing Laserbeak away. But no, she often returned to him, with several nuzzles and reassurances. Her spark, she said, was big enough to love two. 

Frenzy and Rumble were both here as well, sitting on the row in front of Soundwave, too small for their pedes to reach the ground, with Bumblebee perched on Rumble’s other side and Eject wriggling in the seat next to Frenzy. The former pair had made themselves official in the past five years, rekindling the fire which had once burned strongly between them. 

Soundwave did not know if they intended to become conjunx now or in the future. Everything remained tentative, steps taken as carefully as though they tiptoed over frozen water. They had to relearn one another, so to speak, as both had changed over the course of the war. 

Frenzy and Eject had struck up a friendship that seemed built to last, one Soundwave knew beyond a shadow of a doubt was not romantic in the slightest. So far, neither mech seemed interest in romance, and Soundwave doubted that would change. Some mechs weren’t wired that way, and there was nothing wrong with it. 

So long as Frenzy was happy. Which he was. The two of them were, in fact, whispering and giggling to each other, and Soundwave sent a stern glance across the bond. 

Frenzy peered over his shoulder with a half-guilty look before beaming and offering Soundwave a flippant wave. 

 _I’ll be good, boss. Promise._  

And then he whipped back around, he and Eject’s helms near to each other, their whispers continuing but their giggles quieter. 

Soundwave considered warning Blaster. But if the other carrier didn’t know what they were scheming, far be it from Soundwave to warn his one-time rival. Let him be the one to find out what the two troublemakers intended to do with several cans of silly string and a catapult. 

Someone slipped into the open bench beside him. 

“OP looks mighty handsome up there, don’t he?” 

Soundwave tried not to stiffen. After five years, he should be used to Jazz popping up around him. 

He wasn’t. 

He didn’t look at the third in command, choosing instead to keep his gaze forward, not wanting to see the smirk of satisfaction on Jazz’s face. He knew far too well what he was doing. 

“Optimus always handsome,” Soundwave answered, and felt the bloom of pride in his spark all over again, for it was true. 

Optimus was handsome, though it was his kindness, his firmness, his forgiveness, his very spark that captured Soundwave’s own. He was aesthetically pleasing, but it was everything Optimus  _was_ , that made Soundwave love him. 

Jazz chuckled and nudged him with an elbow. “Okay, ya win that one. I ain’t gonna argue with that truth.” Peripherally, Soundwave saw Jazz lean back and get comfortable – he intended to stay. How unfortunate. “That’ll be you ‘nd him up there someday, I’ll bet. Magnus’ll preside, that’s the kind of thing Magnus does, and it’ll be so cute. I think.” 

Soundwave blinked behind his visor. He finally turned his head, but Jazz wasn’t looking at him anymore. Instead, his gaze was focused on Optimus, something in the tight restraint of his field suggesting Soundwave knew where this conversation was going. 

“Perhaps,” Soundwave allowed. “Decision, Optimus’. Jazz disapproves?” 

Jazz laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Mech, I’m way too late for disapprovin’ of any kind.” He leaned back, lounging in the bench with the sort of false ease that he’d perfected over the course of the war. “Optimus is happy. He’s glowin’. That’s all a decent mech could ask for.” 

“And Jazz?” 

“I’ll make do.” Jazz shrugged, again with false nonchalance. “I’ll improvise. It’s what I do. Not like I don’t have any experience.” 

There was a wealth of information in that revelation, but now wasn’t the time to peel into it. Perhaps he’d set Frenzy on it. He’d always admired Jazz and given their propensity for mischief, could probably make a friend of the mech. Both of them could use more friends. 

“Jazz generous,” Soundwave said after a moment of carefully cycling and discarding through words. 

“I know when I’m beaten. I’m just tryin’ to be the better mech here, ain’t nothin’ generous about it.” Jazz’s shoulders rolled, but he was focused up front, where Optimus had turned his head to acknowledge Laserbeak, one hand raised to scratch gently under her chin. “And I think I’ve made all the threats I need ta make. Ya already know what’ll happen if ya hurt him.” 

Soundwave inclined his head. “Affirmative.” 

Jazz loudly cycled a ventilation and threw himself forward, hopping to his feet with a jaunty move that belied the disquiet in his field. He half-turned to look at Soundwave, still with that damnable grin, no matter how strained at the edges. 

“Ya make ‘im happy, all right? Whatever it takes.” 

Something coiled in Soundwave’s internals, something a lot like relief. He’d spent so long on edge, waiting for the moment Jazz sauntered into view, admitted the secret in his spark, and effortlessly whisked Optimus away. He was charming, where Soundwave was not. He was affectionate, beautiful, funny, intelligent and devoted. In comparison, Soundwave often wondered what he had to offer, and considered himself lucky Jazz didn’t seem inclined to make it a fight. 

Now, Soundwave wondered why he’d even let himself fear. If there was ever a battle, Soundwave had already won. Jazz lost before he even offered himself into the match. 

“No intentions otherwise,” Soundwave said, and surprised himself with the conviction in his vocals, before he admitted what he’d told few others, “Optimus is loved.” 

Jazz’s lips pulled into a smile, one softer than before. “That’s all I wanted to hear.” He sketched a salute. “Catch ya on the flip side, Sounders.” 

And then he was gone, slipping out of the row where Soundwave had chosen to sit, and sliding into one a few back, next to Smokescreen. Soundwave had heard rumors that the two shared berths more often than not, though research seemed to indicate it was less a thing of romance, and more one of comfort. 

 _‘Jazz odd_ ,’ Buzzsaw chirped to him as Soundwave turned back around, directing his attention to the front. He’d been watching the entire time, from his perch in the rafters, where he had the best view of the entire room. 

 _‘Friendship perhaps possible now,_ ’ Soundwave replied. 

Buzzsaw sent a sound akin to a raspberry. ‘ _Still watch for knife in back, boss_.’ 

Soundwave buried a snort. ‘ _Always_.’

Optimus stepped forward, gathering everyone’s attention by lifting his hands and calling for silence, and the rest of the conversation slid away. He had Soundwave’s full attention, not that it was hard, and there Optimus was, at ease in front of the small crowd, a gentle smile on his lips and in his optics. 

“Friends and family, I welcome you all to the public conjunx ceremony for Hound of Lower Monoplex and Ravage of Stanix,” Optimus began, his sonorous voice filling every nook and cranny of the small room. “It is my honor to be chosen to conduct this ceremony, and I am proud to be a part of this momentous occasion, this celebration of love enduring. If you would all rise, we can welcome the soon-to-be endura.” 

Obedience was almost immediate, though not silent. Too many mechs with too many creaks and whooshes and groans as they rose to their feet and half-turned as one to the open door at the end of the aisle. A song began to play, soft and sweet, one that Soundwave’s memory file tagged as an old ballad he’d thought lost to the war. He wondered how and who had managed to dig it up. 

Moments passed, stretched with anticipation, until as one, Hound and Ravage stepped into the doorway, the former from the right and the latter from the left. Hound was beaming, his armor jittering, and Ravage had raised her head high, her optics bright and pleased. 

They strode together, step in step, Hound matching Ravage’s stride as though he had been doing so for centuries, as if it were easy to match a bipedal pace to a quadrupedal one. Their size difference was all the more apparent now, and Soundwave knew, the subject of some ridicule among those who had not been taught to keep their prying to themselves. Soundwave wished he could claim said slaggers were only from the Neutrals, but they were evenly spread throughout the three factions. 

There were far too many who still didn’t consider Ravage an intelligent being in her own right, one capable of making her own decisions and truly loving another. And while a part of Soundwave would have been glad to hunt down every detractor to inform them the error of their ways, he knew better than to do so. 

It would help no one and in the end, they didn’t matter. What mattered, instead, was this. Hound and Ravage together, happy, hoping beyond hoping during the war that they could come to this very moment. 

They passed Soundwave’s row and for a moment, Ravage’s gaze flicked away from the podium that was their destination, to land upon Soundwave. A wealth of words carried in the single glance before she focused forward again. The last echoes of the bond thrummed between them, always present for all that Soundwave had broken it. She was imprinted on his spark forever. 

And then they were at the podium, standing in front of Optimus, turning to face one another, the love in their field enough to make Soundwave’s knees tremble. Especially when Hound lowered himself to one knee and rested one hand across it, palm up. Ravage lifted a single paw, resting it over his hand. Hound’s fingers curled, the tips of them resting over Ravage’s paw, claiming, but loose enough to set her free if she so wished. 

He knew her so very well. 

Soundwave strengthened the blocks around his processor again, if only so he could focus. Especially when Optimus beamed down at them, his happiness for their sake nearly blinding. 

The crowd seated itself. The music softened, though it continued to play in the background, just enough to maintain the mood. Soundwave made a mental note to acquire a copy of it. He thought Optimus might like to fall into recharge to it. 

There were, perhaps, about a dozen Cybertronians in attendance, and an island full of humans through the lens of Buzzsaw’s camera. All watched as Optimus smiled and began to speak. 

“There was a time when both of you could only dream of this moment,” he said, voice soft but carrying, and rich with meaning. “When we were all wrapped in the chains of war, and dreams were tiny things to be nestled in our sparks. They were the smallest of hopes to cling to, in the darkest of times, and I believe I speak for all of us when I say how glad I am that you two are here before us today, to finally claim that carefully nurtured dream.” 

Hound’s ventilations audibly stuttered, though perhaps only audible to someone with Soundwave’s advanced systems. Ravage, in response, shifted closer to him, lending Hound the strength of her field. 

Optimus looked down at them. “It has always been my preference that the two hopeful partners speak their promises to one another without ceremony. We, after all, are only here to bear witness to a truth that the both of you already know.” He gestured to each of them in turn. “Ravage, would you like to begin?” 

This, Soundwave knew, had been agreed upon by all parties. Ravage had insisted she be allowed to speak first

“Hound,” Ravage’s vocals crackled with emotion. “I never knew I could fall in love with another spark beyond the definition of family. I did not know I could meet someone who I would grow to need in my life. But from the moment we met, I knew you were the exception. You would always be the exception.” 

Soundwave’s spark squeezed at his once-cassette’s frank admission of love, for there were no other words to describe the emotion in Ravage’s spark. 

“I love you,” Ravage continued. “I will always love you. I have spent over half a lifetime waiting for this moment, and I intend to spend the rest of my lifetime wherever you are. If you’ll have me.” 

“Oh, Rav.” Hound dropped to both knees, his hands cupping Ravage’s face as he pressed their foreheads together. “It’s I who should be begging you to accept me. I’d never seen beauty until I met you. I didn’t know my attention could be captivated by anyone until you eclipsed everything, inside and out.”

Hound’s optics shimmered where Soundwave could see them, and like Ravage, the naked emotion in his vocals, in his expression, turned Soundwave’s spark to mush. He’d not seen a commitment ceremony in centuries, but this one already proved to be the best, the most honest of them. 

“You are the strength that kept me together. You’ve always been my strength,” Hound murmured as he held Ravage’s gaze. “And if you let me, I will spend the rest of my life offering my strength in return. Frame, mind, and spark.” 

It was the heaviest of promises, the most earnest. Only the sincere offered all three to their beloved, because all three in tandem were the very definition of a mech. Rossum’s Trinity, if you asked the texts. 

Ravage lifted a paw, resting it on Hound’s thigh. Her head bumped back against his, leaning into the press of their foreheads. 

“You are mine, Hound of Lower Monoplex,” she said. “Always and forever.” 

Hound’s thumbs swept over Ravage’s jaw. “I’m yours,” he agreed. “And I take you as my own, Ravage of Stanix, until the Allspark welcomes us and beyond.” 

Soundwave’s spark squeezed and squeezed as Hound and Ravage embraced, the tendrils of their fields so tightly knit as to be indistinguishable one from the other. They had wanted this for so long, had put it aside for the sake of others, how could Soundwave be anything but happy for them, here in their moment of triumph? 

“Thus the words are spoken,” Optimus said as he lowered himself to one knee, resting a hand on Hound’s shoulder and the other on Ravage’s upper back, between her shoulders. “Thus the vow is made, one to the other. Witnessed by your friends, your family, and the ever-watchful gaze of our creator.” 

Ravage, Soundwave knew, believed very little in Primus or the all-seeing optics of any kind of deity, sleeping or dead. But Hound had enough religion for both of them, and she’d conceded to his wishes in that regard. 

Give and take. Compromise and adapt. They’d been making concessions for each other for centuries. What was another in the grand scheme of things. 

“Hound of Lower Monoplex, and Ravage of Stanix, I officially pronounce you conjunx,” Optimus continued, his optics bright with happiness, his field nearly eclipsing them both with delight. “May your bond be everlasting and your love never falter.” 

“Never,” Hound murmured in an echo of Optimus. 

The sheen of joy in Ravage’s optics spoke more than enough words. They slid shut, ever so slow, and her field slid into Hound’s, merging into one. 

Soundwave’s spark fluttered. He ex-vented, long and slow, even as his remaining cassettes pulsed love across their shared bond. He registered the sound of clapping around him, the engines revving in congratulations. He felt as though he were floating, his shields fluctuating against the strong inflow of positive energy. It was like high grade, like overcharge, and it made him dizzy. 

Soundwave whispered a silent prayer as well, to a deity he still wasn’t sure he trusted. He asked the universe, also. 

Let her be happy. It was all he could have hoped for any of his cassettes. 

~

It was hard not to feel a teensy bit of envy. 

Oh, Jazz was monumentally happy for Hound. He knew how long the tracker had been waiting for this. He’d been there, in all those lonely nights, sharing a berth with Hound because he missed Ravage something fierce but couldn’t admit it, and just wanted a warm frame to platonically cuddle. He’d caught them so many times, curled together, whispering promises to one another, hopes for a future where the war didn’t exist, where they could at last be as one. 

Jazz was so, so glad they finally had this opportunity. It was the only good thing to come out of that horrifying year where the Decepticons had won. 

But it was also hard not to envy him a little. Well, maybe more than a little. Maybe a lot. Especially as the ceremony ended and everyone started milling around, chatting in little groups, slipping in to congratulate the couple. 

Jazz didn’t miss anything. Especially not the way Optimus and Soundwave immediately gravitated together, Soundwave saying something to make Optimus chuckle, and the subtle way Soundwave rested a hand briefly against Optimus’ lower back. Or how Optimus leaned into the touch just enough to draw comfort from it. 

Jazz knew Optimus. Knew him inside and out. Knew that Optimus loved Soundwave with every inch of his being, even if their being together was moving at a pace more glacial than continental drift. 

Jazz would bet the entirety of Cybertron that at some point in the near-future, maybe before Earth’s sun burned out even, Optimus and Soundwave would be making very similar vows to one another. They were a good match. Jazz couldn’t have picked someone better for Optimus. 

Well, unless he looked in the mirror. Except that was kind of a lie because Jazz was not what anyone would call a good mate. His past was even more checkered than Soundwave’s. Besides all that, he was a coward. Because he’d never been able to bring himself to tell Optimus how he felt, and now there was no point. No chance. If there’d even been one in the first place. 

Jazz hauled himself out of the bench and slid into the crowd, moving seamlessly amid the chatting mechs, so quiet most didn’t see him. The few that did, Jazz offered grins, handshakes, a joke or two. It was distressingly easy to pull that mantle on sometimes. Scary easy to be ‘Jazz’ when he needed to be. 

Of all the personas he draped over his frame, he liked ‘Jazz’ the best. Maybe he’d even keep it, once he was secure and certain in this peace. 

“So that’s what you look like when you’re rattled.” 

Jazz drew up short and spun slowly, planting a bright grin on his face as he turned to greet one of his last remaining subordinates, though perhaps that was a strong word. Eventually Bumblebee would leave him, too. 

That was the way world worked. People came to him, they learned from him, he trusted them, and then, they discovered how to be happy again, and they left him. People were always leaving Jazz. 

Maybe he should change his name to Waypoint. 

“Who says I’m rattled?” Jazz demanded as he planted his hands on his hips, body language deliberately playful and unbothered. “This is a wedding, mechs. I’m practically giddy.” 

“Right,” Rumble drawled as he leaned against Bumblebee’s side, one elbow on Bumblebee’s shoulder, casual as you please. “And those long looks my boss’ direction aren’t ya plotting how to kill him and get away with it.” 

Jazz reared back, feigning affront. “What? Of course not! Me and Sounders are the best of buddies now. Just ask him.” He smirked, flashing his denta. “Besides, any good soldier knows when the battle’s lost. Sometimes, ya gotta cut yer losses and run.” 

Bumblebee snorted. “You’ve never run from anything a day in your life,” he said, and gave Jazz one of those inscrutable looks he hated so much. 

Kid always was too insightful for his own good. Never had any friends because of it. Well, until he joined up with jazz’s crew anyway. Jazz’s kind didn’t mind a mech with talents like that. Was pretty useful out in the field in all. 

Couldn’t be a good agent if you couldn’t look through your targets, right to the very spark of them. Pretty annoying to turn on your fellow agents though. They all got used to it. 

“You don’t have to pretend you’re okay,” Bumblebee added, hitting the nail squarely on the head, no busted thumbnails for this one. “Not to us.” 

“Pfft. I’m fine. There’s nothin’ to be not-okay about.” Jazz waved a hand, flippant, ignoring the way his spark squeezed and stuttered, and flight-or-fight twisted around his tank, strong enough to make his hydraulics rattle. 

Danger, Jazzmeister! Thy secret is out! 

Jazz squinted at his subordinate and his cozy significant other. “Don’t you two have somewhere else ta be right now?” 

It was Rumble’s turn to snort, mates like mates after all. “Yeah. We can see when we’re not wanted.” He shoved off Bumblebee’s side and made a show of dusting off his frame. “But you know, Jazz, regret’s a heavy thing to carry. All the things ya didn’t say especially.” 

Jazz twisted his jaw. The light in his visor went flat. “Mech, maybe not tonight is a good night to test me, yeah?” It wasn’t a threat. If anyone asked, Jazz was absolutely not threatening anyone. 

Friendly reminders didn’t count as threats. 

Bumblebee sighed and curled an arm around Rumble’s elbow. “Come on, dumpling. You should know better than to tug the tail of the tiger.” 

“But it’s so much fun!” 

Jazz folded his arms under his bumper. “Oh, is it now? And when should we show up for your shotgun bonding, huh?” 

Rumble tossed a middle-finger over his shoulder. Someone had been spending a little too much time with the humans. He’d picked up on some nasty habits. Brat. 

Jazz snorted and dropped his arms. He searched the crowd, trying to see if anyone had noticed their little conversation and put the hints together. But, no. Everyone was too busy with their own happy lives, content that the war really was over, and danger lurked nowhere. 

Ah, civilians. What did that even feel like?

Jazz worked his way to Hound and Ravage, the former of who was grinning so brightly he could serve as a lightbulb, and the latter who was getting twitchier by the moment, probably as a result of all the attention. Ravage had always preferred shadows. This much time in the sunshine was likely driving her crazy. 

There was a lull in the congratulations swamping them, so Jazz swooped in to speak his piece, locating his happiness for them and planting it on his face. 

“It’s about time,” he said as he slid to a stop in front of them, hands on his hips. “Congratulations you two. So’s you know, I was rooting for you the whole time.” 

“Yes, I know,” Ravage said with a roll of her optics. “And I appreciate your discretion. You could have reported us and made things quite difficult.” 

“I would never stand in the way of true love.” Jazz pressed a palm to his chestplate, over his squeezing spark. “In fact, I’d like to thank that I had a hand in making sure you two lovebirds finally got to build your nest.” 

Hound chuckled. “I’ll be sure to mention you in my speech at the reception.” He shifted closer to Ravage, plating pressed to plating, his field brimming with emotion. “You know, though, if you ever need us...” 

“I won’t.” This Jazz knew for sure. “It’s a new world, kiddos. The time of spies and tricksters is at its end. Enjoy your marital life and domesticity.” He gave them two thumbs up, perhaps a touch too overplayed, but damn it, Jazz was ready to get out of here. 

Too much joy in the air. 

Hound laughed, blind to the subtext, but Ravage’s keen-eyed stare was one Jazz was ready to back slowly away from. So he toned it down and gentled his smile. 

“In all seriousness,” Jazz said. “Congratulations. Many happy returns.” 

He left before he could make a fool of himself, and they didn’t have time to respond anyway, not with another well-wisher bouncing up to take Jazz’s place. Literally. Eject could be a ball of energy sometimes, and it never took much to drag Frenzy into his pace. Cute as a button, those two were. 

Time, however, for Jazz to make his escape. 

He slipped into the crowd, aimed himself at the exit, and the fresh air of freedom beyond the door. 

He didn’t expect to get intercepted by the last mech he wanted to talk to at the moment. He loved Optimus with all his spark, honestly, but sometimes, Optimus had the worst timing. He could be so unbearably dense. Yet, they’d known each other for so long, Optimus would definitely notice something wasn’t quite right. 

“Oh, hey, OP. Great job on the ceremony,” Jazz said, pulling on every mantle of confidence and ease he had in his arsenal. “You haven’t lost your touch.” 

Optimus smiled at him, gentle and affectionate. “Thank you, Jazz. I appreciate the compliment.” He tilted his head in confusion. “Leaving so soon?” 

“Yeah. I should get there early to help Skybyte finish setting up.” 

It was only partially a lie. Jazz probably should get there early to warm up. It was his first public concert in ages. That Skybyte had unbent enough to perform with him was a monumental leap forward in Autobot-Neutral relations. Skybyte was the sort who held onto grudges for ages, even if Metalhawk’s downfall had been brought upon by his own actions. Luckily, Skybyte had no clue about Jazz’s help in that department. 

Optimus rested a hand on his shoulder, warm and companionable. “I am glad to see that you, too, are settling into a post-war life, Jazz. It’s what I hope for every Autobot who has fought alongside me.” 

Jazz reached up and patted Optimus’ hand before he slid out from under it, the ache of longing threatening to clog up his intake. “You just want everyone to be as happy and snuggly as you are.” 

“Guilty as charged.” Optimus chuckled. “We have earned it, I believe. All of us. And you especially.” His gaze turned briefly distant, his words warm. “I don’t think I can ever repay you for your loyalty, for your friendship. If not for you--”

Jazz shook his head, cutting Optimus off. He’d had enough of gratitude, but thanks anyway. He hadn’t done what he did because he wanted Optimus to be grateful. He’d risked life and spark and limb because a world where that monster had his hands on Optimus wasn’t a world worth living in. 

“Don’t worry about it, boss. It comes with the territory. It’s what I’m here for.” Jazz grinned, most of it sincere, the rest of it there to hide the emotion his visor couldn’t. “Anyway, I’d better get going. Skybyte bitches worse than Metalhawk if I’m late.” 

Optimus laughed. “That I can believe. Soundwave and I will be by later. I intend to catch at least some of your performance.” 

“Then I’ll look for you in the crowd.” 

Jazz winked and danced backward. He tossed off a friendly salute, careful to keep his smile intact. “Catch ya later, OP.” He slipped into the crowd before Optimus could say anything further and told himself he wasn’t running away. 

He waited until he was a fair distance gone to look back, unsurprised to see that Optimus had sought out Soundwave, and the two were now standing together. Optimus had Laserbeak back on his shoulder, nuzzling the side of his head. Soundwave was offering a treat to Buzzsaw. Whatever they spoke about, it made Optimus smile. 

He was happy. So happy. He’d improved so much since that horrible enslavement five years ago. He wasn’t perfect. The echoes of it still lingered, but Optimus was moving forward. Healing. 

He was going to be just fine. And that was enough. It had to be. 

Jazz cycled a ventilation and slipped out of the ceremony hall, into a sky twinkling with twilight, manufactured though it was. Cybertron spun endlessly through space. One of these orns, maybe they’d get caught by a star. Or Perceptor and Brainstorm and all the other vastly intelligent mechs would figure out how to put Cybertron somewhere permanent. 

Maybe it was for the best they didn’t. No one liked Cybertronians and hadn’t for quite some time. Maybe better that no one could easily find them. And someday, they’d leave Earth behind, too. So the surviving humans could rebuild and forget they ever knew the metal monsters which slayed them. 

Jazz chuckled to himself as he hustled toward the temporary stage, constructed for this evening alone. My but he was feeling maudlin tonight. He should be delighted, celebratory even. 

Five years of peace! He should be in the highest of spirits! Or something. 

The stage came into view, already brightly lit and draped in celebratory banners. An awful sound screeched out of the speakers – probably Blaster checking the sound system again. He could be pretty particular about it, especially now that he could spare the time to focus on his true love. 

Music was the rhythm of his spark. It always would be. 

Jazz rounded the corner of the stage and spied Skybyte in the center of it, playing straw boss to Blaster’s cassettes – minus Eject and Rewind unsurprisingly – as they ran around to finish the last fiddly bits. Jazz hopped up onto the stage just as Skybyte turned to survey the open area which would serve as the concert hall. 

“About time you got here,” Skybyte said, ever so friendly, ever the grump. He planted his hands on his hips. “I thought I would have to start without you.” 

Jazz smirked. “I didn’t know acapella was your style.” 

“I have recordings.” Skybyte squinted at him, something in the hard edge of his stare softening. “You look like someone snatched your favorite blaster. Is there something I should know about?”

“Nothing treaty-related.” Jazz flicked a hand. “It’s personal. I’ll get over it. Did you decide the set list?” 

A mutual enjoyment of music, that had been the ties that slowly drew the Neutrals and the Autobots into something closer to a partnership, rather than bitter enemies. Jazz had been the first to cast the line, but Skybyte had been the first to bite the bait. He’d harbored a deep love of poetry, but never had the skills to attach it to music. 

Jazz had hooked him, line and sinker, with a wink and a tidbit of information: there wasn’t an instrument on this planet or any other that Jazz hadn’t fallen in love with. Some he could play like any master. Others, not so much. But the music lived in his spark as much as it did Blaster’s. 

And a trio was born. As in three, because what musical group could be complete without someone to smooth over the rough edges? Jazz and Skybyte relied on Blaster to make them sound good. 

“Yes, I did. After conferring with Blaster, we thought it most appropriate to start with ‘Exit the Fall.’” Skybyte’s frown did not ease. 

Jazz nodded. “Good choice.” He cast about, looking for his electro-bass. One of many instruments he’d be playing this evening. “You got ‘In the Rafters’ on there, too?” 

“Of course.” 

“Then I’m happy with whatever the rest is.” 

He found the bass in its cradle, treated carefully. Blaster’s little mechs knew the value of it, knew how to handle it properly. Good kids, they were. Jazz would have to bring them a treat later. 

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Skybyte’s frown lingered, less severe, more concerned now. “There is decidedly less…  _you_  in your step.” 

Jazz barked a laugh as he knelt by his instrument’s case and ran his fingers over the aged metal. It had survived so much, even more than the war, just like its owner. 

“I would have thought a poet could come up with a better adjective.” Jazz removed the electro-bass from the case and gave it a testing strum. “It’s been a long half-decade is all. No worries. I’m good to play.” 

Skybyte huffed an exasperated sound. “I wasn’t concerned about your ability to play, Jazz.” He rolled his optics, muttered something subvocally, and turned away. “Forget I asked. Let us just concentrate on the show for the evening. I don’t wish to disappoint anyone.” 

“Impossible,” Jazz replied cheekily. “We’re the bees knees. Everyone loves us.” 

“The bees knees. Primus, you Autobots and that infection you call a human language. If I never have to suffer another ridiculous idiom, it will be a miracle,” Skybyte muttered. He walked away, off to bark another command at Steeljaw as more lights brightened the stage. 

Jazz grinned and focused on his electro-bass, giving it another few strums. He looked out over the courtyard where a few curious mechs had already begun to gather. 

It was a good future they were building here. Maybe not perfect. Maybe not everything he could have ever wanted. 

But good enough. 

Definitely good enough. 

***

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairings: Sunstreaker/Sideswipe/Drift  
> Characters: Mirage, Cliffjumper, Perceptor, Wheeljack, Brainstorm, Frenzy, Eject, Blaster, Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, Drift, First Aid, Ambulon
> 
> Inspiration song "Rise," Katy Perry

“Could you bring me out another box of the tumblers and a small carton of the swirl straws?” Mirage called out to the back as he surveyed his supplies for the evening’s celebration with a critical optic.   
  
He didn’t want to run out of anything because celebrating drunks could quickly turn into angry drunks if they didn’t get what they wanted. Mirage wasn’t above throwing anyone out of his bar – after all, they weren’t a cred-based economy at the moment, so Visages was a matter of fun for him, not necessity. But he still didn’t want the irritation.   
  
“Sure thing!”   
  
Mirage flicked a glance at the chronometer above the bar, cheerfully letting him know that he had fifteen minutes before he’d officially open. Already, night was taking over, stars dotting the dark sky, and streetlamps brightening one by one. Mechs of all shapes, sizes, and affiliations – some no longer even visibly wearing a badge – clogged the streets.   
  
It was going to be a busy night. It was going to be loud, noisy, and above all else, cheerful. After all, weren’t celebrations supposed to be?   
  
Two boxes thumped to the counter in front of him, where space was left open for mixing drinks in front of the flavoring display.   
  
“Anything else I can get for ya, boss?” Cliffjumper asked as he dusted off his hands and planted them on his hips.   
  
Mirage’s lips quirked into a grin. “It will never cease to amuse me that you call me that unironically.”   
  
“What? Boss? That’s what you are. At least in this place.” Cliffjumper made a vague gesture to the entirety of the bar. “Besides, I call lots of people ‘boss’ these days.”   
  
“Speaking of, how is it working with Glyph? Going well?” Mirage peeled the lids off his supplies, examining them with a critical optic before he started pulling them out to put the extra stock behind the bar.   
  
Cliffjumper shrugged and leaned against the counter. He knew better than to offer to help. “He’s not all bad, for a NAIL.”   
  
Mirage gave him a stern look.   
  
Cliffjumper rolled his optics. “Sorry.  _Neutral_.” He spoke the term with evident distaste, nasal ridge wrinkling. “He’s not bossy like some people, and he lets me work at my own pace. Better than calling some fragging ‘Con boss at least.”   
  
More swirly straws filled the cups lined up behind the bar. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay here tonight?” Mirage asked, giving Cliffjumper a sidelong stare.   
  
Recovery had been a long, grueling process for the minibot. Five years since the treaty had been signed, and Cliffjumper had only been released on parole within the last six months, now that the urge to attack anyone wearing a Decepticon badge had been quelled. He was still angry, still bitter, but he had learned the value of restraint.   
  
Mirage didn’t want to compromise Cliffjumper’s growth. Visages was a bar open to all factions, regardless of badge. There were, of course, a few mechs who had been banned from the establishment, not that anyone would know but Mirage and said mechs. He had subtly informed them that they were not welcome anywhere near him.   
  
Or Cliffjumper, who under the terms of his release, had Mirage for a sponsor. A task which Mirage had volunteered for.   
  
Cliffjumper’s day job involved working with Glyph, further and further from the little metropolis of Polyhex, Nova Cronum, and Iacon. They ventured into databases, crypts, barely standing structures – all to find the lost arts, the lost datanovels, the lost histories. Anything that could be preserved of the Cybertron-That-Was.   
  
It was a good job for Cliffjumper. One that kept him well away from potential Decepticon sightings, but enabled him to feel useful without being used. Plus, it would probably surprise many an Autobot to learn that Cliffjumper – brash, bold, and vulgar as he was – loved history and loved to read.   
  
Cliffjumper nibbled on his bottom lip, his gaze drifting away, to the closed sign on the main door. “Honestly, Mir. I’m not sure. I wanna be, because I hate feeling like this, but I dunno. It might be too much.” He shifted his weight, from one foot to the other. “If one of them came walking in here--”  
  
“They won’t,” Mirage interrupted gently. He closed the space between them, carefully laying a hand on Cliffjumper’s shoulder. “Take my word for it. Not a single one of the monsters we loathe will ever step foot in our safe harbor. I swear it.”  
  
Cliffjumper sighed, but his field relented to the warm push of Mirage’s, accepting the comfort for what it is – a resonance of shared pain. “I believe you. But maybe I should stay in the back for a while. Just in case.”   
  
Mirage squeezed his shoulder. “Whatever you think is best, I’ll support you. And you don’t even have to stay if you don’t want to. I know you worked all day.”   
  
“And miss the party? I get some kind of celebration, too, don’t I?” Cliffjumper grinned, and if it was a pale copy of the old brash smirk he used to have, Mirage didn’t comment.   
  
It was still miles above the Cliffjumper who had barely survived Decepticon captivity.   
  
“Besides, Smokescreen’s gonna be here, and you know he’ll pout if I don’t join him for at least one game.” Cliffjumper straightened, his shoulders growing firm, and his field equally so, billowing with strength.   
  
Mirage’s spark swelled with pride. They had both of them come so far. “All right then. If you insist.”   
  
His wall clock chimed a warning sound. Five more minutes to open, and per the usual, his bartender was running late. Mirage would have to fill in until Pipes – who was probably off cavorting with Riptide  _again_  – arrived. It would help that friendly competition in the form of Swerve’s – a more raucous and cheap bar across the way – would keep Mirage’s Visages from getting overcrowded.   
  
Mirage stirred into action. “Flip the last of the chairs for me, will you? I’m going to turn on the lights and music.”   
  
Cliffjumper sketched a salute at him. “Sir, yes, sir.”   
  
Mirage chuckled and watched him vault over the bar as though it wasn’t as high as his chin. True minibot mentality that one, no obstacle too large to stand in his way. As indomitable no matter the odds.   
  
 _What would you think to see us, my love?_  Mirage wondered as he slipped to the main electrical panel in the back, flipping switches one by one to active the interior and exterior lights.   
  
 _Would you be proud? Would you be happy? Would you have loved this mess of a world we have left? Would you ever believe me to find a friend and kindred spirit in Cliffjumper?  
  
The world is a strange, strange place._   
  
Mirage flicked on the music and a cheerful, wordless song poured through the speakers. A classic, actually, from Cybertron-That-Was, and a gift from Cliffjumper. One of the first of his finds, an entire datadisc of ancient songs.   
  
 _I think you would have liked it here, Tracks._    
  
Mirage cycled a deep ventilation, steeling himself for another night, another day in the life of New Cybertron, spinning toward a brighter future. The loss of his beloved was an ache he’d never forget, never lose. But it was getting easier to bear.   
  
“Mirage, it’s time!”   
  
“Coming!”   
  
Mirage stepped out of the electrical room and locked the door behind him. Tonight was going to be a good night, he decided. A night worthy of celebration.   
  
He intended to enjoy every minute of it.   
  


~

  
  
Perceptor took one look at the final preparations for the massive colorful display they planned on offering tonight, and lunged across the platform, diving between Wheeljack and Brainstorm in a spectacular display of speed no one could have ever expected of him.   
  
“No! Are you insane?” he demanded as he spun on a heelstrut and planted himself in front of the console, arms splayed wide, defending it with his very spark. “You’ll overload the whole system!”   
  
Brainstorm sniffed and crossed his arms, wings twitching. “What’re you even talking about? The console we’ve built here is more than enough to handle the charge.”   
  
“Yes, for calculations we’ve confirmed thrice over, in a planned display that we’ve tested on countless computer simulations,” Perceptor snapped and flung a quivering hand in Wheeljack’s direction, at whatever newfangled contraption the engineer had appeared with. “That is a disaster in the making!”   
  
Indicators flashed in merry bands of color. “Aw, Percy, don’t you trust me?” Wheeljack asked as he bounced on his heelstruts, craning his frame to look around Perceptor at the waiting console.   
  
“I’ll have you know that my calculations are never wrong, and I’m absolutely sure the addition of this device will not end in disaster,” Brainstorm said with a huff.   
  
“I trust you, Wheeljack.” Perceptor, for the moment, ignored Brainstorm. “I trust that you know what you’re doing, and I trust that since we’re dealing with displays of an explosive nature, your philosophy has always been, the bigger the better.”   
  
Wheeljack laughed. “Well, you aren’t wrong.”   
  
Brainstorm leaned in front of Perceptor, waving a hand wildly in front of his face. “Hey, you’re ignoring me again. That’s still rude.”   
  
“I’ll pay you attention when you have something relevant to say,” Perceptor replied with a roll of his optics.   
  
“This is relevant!” Brainstorm insisted. “We wanted something amazing for the finale, right? Something that would oo and ah everyone?” He flapped a hand toward the box in Wheeljack’s arms. “Well, that’s it right there!”   
  
“We have a finale,” Perceptor retorted through clenched denta. “One we know is safe.”   
  
Wheeljack loudly coughed. “You know, Percy, we could always run the numbers again. It won’t take  _that_  long.”   
  
“But test--”  
  
“Come on. We’re all smart mechs.” Wheeljack rolled his shoulders and the brightness of his optics was a peace-making grin. “We don’t need a dozen trials to know if something is going to work or not. I trust all three of us.”   
  
Perceptor sighed and scrubbed at his forehead. He’d lost this battle before it even begun. “Fine,” he said. “Give me your data, and I’ll see what I find.”   
  
Brainstorm shoved a datastick at him. “You’ll find that my calculations are accurate, and you’re making a big deal out of nothing,” he said as he wiggled the datastick. “You’re not the only genius in here, you know.”   
  
“Just the most reasonable one,” Perceptor snapped.   
  
Brainstorm rolled his optics and snatched the box from Wheeljack. “Then while you go confirm that I’m right, I’m going to go ahead and get this set up.”  
  
“You do that.”   
  
Perceptor glared at Brainstorm’s back, more annoyed by the younger scientist’s attitude than irritated in general. There was something about Brainstorm that turned him into an argumentative child, and he wasn’t sure why.   
  
Huffing, Perceptor turned to the main console and plugged in Brainstorm’s datastick. He uploaded the contents to the algorithm he’d been using to determine the level of danger to be expected with their current explosive set-up.   
  
Somewhere, in the background, Brainstorm sat down with much more noise than was necessary and started to unpack the box he and Wheeljack had brought. The amount of clunks and clatters coming from his direction were absurd and made Perceptor’s hackles rise even further.   
  
“You know, he’s only annoying you because he’s trying to impress you,” Wheeljack leaned in and murmured, his field ripe with amusement.   
  
Perceptor’s fingers flew across the keys, his optics locked on the screen and the cascading calculations. “Yes, I’m aware.”   
  
“So. You gonna cut the kid a break or let him down gently?”   
  
Perceptor tapped pause and slanted a look in Brainstorm’s direction as he considered Wheeljack’s honest query. He and Wheeljack had rarely agreed on many things, but he still considered Wheeljack a brilliant mech and a dear friend. Wheeljack often had a social insight which Perceptor lacked.   
  
“He  _is_  brilliant,” Perceptor murmured as Brainstorm excitedly talked to himself and wielded screwdriver as though it were an extension of his frame. “Clever. Well-learned.”   
  
Wheeljack chuckled and knocked his shoulder against Perceptor’s. “Not too harsh on the optics either, eh? Gotta love a mech with a spoiler. As sensitive as Seeker wings they are.” He wriggled his own for emphasis, and waggled his optical ridges.   
  
Perceptor snorted a laugh. “You’re ridiculous,” he said. “But not incorrect. He is aesthetically appealing as well. Any other situation, I probably would have pursued his romantic interest in me.”   
  
“But not now?”   
  
“I don’t think it wise.” Perceptor worked his intake and returned his attention to his calculations, unpausing the system to continue its work. “I worry his reverence for my scientific acumen blinds him to my faults. I fear the inevitable dissolution of a romantic entanglement as soon as he realizes that the old adage is true: one should never meet their heroes.”   
  
Wheeljack squinted at him. “Perce, are you telling me that you’re not gonna give the kid a chance because you don’t think he likes who you really are?”   
  
“Is that so improbable?” Perceptor asked.   
  
Wheeljack stared at him and then smacked his palm against his forehead. “My friend, you are really smart, but also, really dumb.” He half-spun and gestured in Brainstorm’s seemingly oblivious direction. “That kid’s been working beside you for three years, which let me tell you something, is no picnic. I love ya, Perce, but you can be a trial and a half and he doesn’t even have  _half_  the history we do. But he’s still here.”  
  
Wheeljack turned back toward Perceptor and poked him in the chestplate, right in the middle of his window. “Nobody sticks around for that long just because they admire you. Trust me. He’s still here because he likes you. All of you.”   
  
Perceptor’s face heated. His fingers paused on the keys as he stared without seeing the calculations scroll by. Wheeljack was probably right. He was always accurate about these things. He understood people far better than Perceptor did.   
  
Perceptor was good at numbers. Theories. Scientific advancements. He understood how machines worked, how the universe fit together. He could make sense of the impossible. He could fathom the unknown.   
  
He did not know how to translate people. He only knew how to be himself, cold and awkward and completely wrapped up in the science.   
  
Somehow, Brainstorm was attracted to him? To that sort of personality? It was more than Perceptor could fathom.   
  
“And yes,” Wheeljack added in a quieter tone. “I’m sure.”   
  
Perceptor worked his intake and tried to focus on his calculations, but his gaze drifted toward Brainstorm, who was peering intently at a panel he was welding.   
  
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Perceptor replied, just as quiet. He gave Wheeljack a soft smile. “But for later, yes? Best not to distract anyone with this much explosive material around us.”   
  
Wheeljack chuckled. “You’re right about that.” He patted Perceptor on the shoulder. “Ratch would kill all of us if we lost any limbs or so much as scorched our paint.” He turned away from Perceptor, indicators flashing merrily. “Yo, Stormy. Everything good over there?”   
  
Brainstorm tossed a thumbs up their direction as weldfire sparked at the panel. “We’ll be ready on time.”   
  
“Great!” Wheeljack grinned and did a little dance of celebration. “Then we can get this party started.”   
  
Perceptor chuckled and glanced at the screen, pleased to find the calculations had finished – and proven Brainstorm’s theory correct. It was going to be a beautiful show, a celebration truly worth what Cybertron had become.   
  
His gaze slid to the side, where Brainstorm had finished his welding and was patting the panel with a satisfied air about him. His little winglets flicked up and down, a rather adorable little quirk in Perceptor’s opinion.   
  
Yes, tonight was going to be something to remember.   
  
In more ways than one.   
  


~

  
  
Chaos and Noise.   
  
They’d come up with the name together, and it was a perfect fit. This wasn’t a quiet place for weary mechs to come and rest and relax. No. Chaos and Noise was for play and games and social interaction, for laughter and loudness and remembering what it was to have fun.   
  
It wasn’t a club, nothing so fancy. The only music to be found were the various theme songs pouring from the different game consoles spread around the open-floor interior. Arcade machines constantly beeped and dinged and burbled cheerful success. They served basic energon and snacks, but no intoxicants.   
  
It was an arcade. In all honesty.   
  
Frenzy chuckled to himself as he leaned over the ledger and scribbled down another note. He liked to pretend that his and Eject’s business was something grand and important, but really, it was an arcade. It was a collection of different types of game systems, some modeled after those on Earth, some recreated from Cybertron-That-Was, others scaled up versions of Earth consoles, but all of them with a plethora of games that could be enjoyed by the Cybertronian masses.   
  
Pinball was both a classic and a favorite.   
  
Frenzy saved his calculations and powered down the datapad, leaning back in his chair to stretch his arms above his head. He groaned as cables twanged and joints popped. They were open already, but unsurprisingly, no one had come yet. Most mechs were waiting for the party to get started before venturing out of their homes.   
  
Honestly, Frenzy would be surprised if they were any kind of busy tonight. Well, maybe with competitions. Happy mechs tended to get a little competitive. DDR was always popular when it came to wanting to beat the tar out of your enemy, but without blaster or missile.   
  
He glanced at his messy desk, visor spotting a note he’d tacked up there after closing yesterday. A reminder.   
  
Frenzy groaned and leveraged himself out of the chair. “Yo, Eject!” He stuck his head out the doorway.   
  
A voice hollered back at him from the front room where Eject was propped up behind the front counter, ostensibly working. “What?”   
  
“The Atari’s busted again. See if Graham or Doc Green have the time to look at it.”   
  
“Call ‘em yourself!”   
  
“They like you better!”   
  
Frenzy didn’t hear Eject’s response, but was sure it contained nothing polite. Chuckling to himself, Frenzy ducked back into the tiny room they deemed an office and glared at the piles of paperwork sitting discarded on his desk.   
  
Frenzy did not like paperwork. Or datawork. Or arithmetic. Or… this administrative slag. They really needed to think about bringing in a third partner, someone to handle the business side of things while he and Eject had all the fun. Someone who liked datapads and numbers and hassling with Swindle for their supplies.   
  
Speaking of…  
  
Frenzy dug out the bottom-most datapad, battered and beaten all to the Pit, but still perfectly functional and the life’s blood of Chaos and Noise. It was their ledger, listing every console, game and prize available in the arcade.   
  
And yes, there were prizes. Just like some of those places on Earth where people could play games of chance and earn tickets to spend at the prize shop. Currency wasn’t much of a thing on New Cybertron, but prize tickets hardly counted as currency, did they?   
  
Frenzy flicked on the power and swiped the screen to the prize list, which was updated by the hour as tickets were earned and redeemed. They were running low on a few quick and easy prizes, as well as one of the larger, surprisingly popular ones. A talk with Swindle would have to be in order.   
  
Frag it.   
  
Frenzy hated dealing with Swindle. He always walked away feeling like he’d been cheated, though he’d squinted at the terms of their agreements with a practiced optic.   
  
Maybe he could convince Eject to take one for the team.   
  
Frenzy flicked the switch to off and tucked the datapad into his subspace. He fled the office, cutting off the lights behind him, and joined Eject behind the front desk instead.   
  
Sure enough, the cassette was sprawled out in a chair, feet propped up on the counter, the long length of a controller cord drawn taut between his hands and the Sega Dreamcast arranged on a rolling cart. The console was connected to a moderately sized flat-screen monitor and was one of many mobile systems they had. The Dreamcast was Eject’s favorite, while Frenzy was more partial to the 64.   
  
“You know, you could at least pretend to be working,” Frenzy said with a snort. He hooked the other rolling chair and plopped his aft down into it.   
  
“You’re not the boss of me,” Eject retorted without looking away from the screen, his fingers flicking fast over the controller.   
  
Frenzy rolled his optics behind his visor. “Right. ‘Cause we’re partners.” He pulled out the datapad and tapped it against Eject’s shoulder. “And here’s your share of the work, partner.”   
  
“Can’t. Busy.”   
  
Frenzy gently whapped him on the head with the datapad. “Pause it, dorkus. This is important.”   
  
Eject uttered an exaggerated sigh and paused the game, plucking the datapad from Frenzy’s fingers. “You always give me the scut work.”   
  
Frenzy shouldered him aside and snagged the controller from his limp grip, taking over before Eject could say a word. “Well, maybe if you acted like you were doing work more, I wouldn’t hafta.”   
  
He unpaused the game – Marvel vs. Capcom, so predictable Eject – and continued punching the slag out of Spiderman. The graphics were terrible, the music was tinny, and he’d seen better final blows from a Gameboy, but still. Better a little fun than no fun at all.   
  
“What? Negotiate with Swindle? No way. It’s your turn.” The datapad smacked Frenzy in the chest as Eject tried to wrestle the controller away from him.   
  
Frenzy wrenched his frame to the right, putting his back and shoulders between Eject as he tried to maintain control. “Too late. Datapad’s yours.” He snickered as he thumbed through the player selection and tried to pick a cool one.   
  
Eject threw himself at Frenzy, nearly toppling them both to the floor. Frenzy shouted, the controller flying from his hands, as he fought back. He couldn’t stop laughing as the datapad squirted out of the scuffle, clattering to the floor. Good thing it was durable.   
  
“That’s unfair!”   
  
“Who says?”   
  
“I say!”   
  
“You’re not the boss of me!”   
  
“You said that already!”   
  
“Ahem.”   
  
Frenzy froze; Eject did, too. Their limbs were thoroughly entangled. The television continued to blare the opening credits of the game.   
  
They had a customer standing in front of the counter. Though honestly, Blaster hardly qualified as a customer. No doubt he was just here to check on one of his “kids.” Pfft. Eject wasn’t the one he should worry about. He should be stalking Rewind and that once-Neutral mindwarper he was dating.   
  
“Hi, boss!” Eject chirped and squirmed his way free of Frenzy’s super-effective grappling technique. “What’s up?”   
  
Blaster grinned at them, an orbital ridge raised. “I came by to see if you wanted to watch the fireworks with me, but it looks like the show is here.”   
  
Eject rolled his optics. Frenzy righted himself and snagged the datapad off the floor, making a show of dusting it off.   
  
“I’m  _working_ ,” Eject said with an indignant tone.   
  
Frenzy snickered behind his hand. “Yeah,” he agreed with a smirk. “We’re working. Can’t ya see how busy we are.” He gestured to the empty playroom.   
  
“Ah, yes. Silly me.” Blaster rummaged about in his subspace and pulled out a box, setting it gently on the counter. “Well, here’re a few snacks for the hard-working cassettes so that they can still enjoy their evening.”   
  
“Snacks?” Eject’s optics got big and round. He pounced on the box, ripping it open with little sounds of glee. “Gummies! Jellies! Rust sticks!? Boss, you really do love me!” He shoved a candied oilcake into his mouth.   
  
No manners that one. Frenzy eyed the box with ravenous intent. As soon as Blaster left, he was going to be all over that thing. There was an energon donut calling his name, iron sprinkles and all.   
  
Blaster chuckled. “Yes, brat, I do. But make sure you share.”   
  
Eject snorted, his mouth coated with powdered sweetening, his cheeks puffed out. His field was all the answer Frenzy needed. They were going to have to fight over that yummy looking nuts and bolts cookie.   
  
Blaster shook his head and turned away, waving goodbye at them. “Alright, I’ll leave you two to your work. Try and stay out of trouble, and yes, I mean you, Eject. Frenzy has been perfectly behaved… for a cassette belonging to that nuisance.”   
  
That nuisance being, of course, Soundwave.   
  
Their rivalry had become a tad more friendly over the years, but Frenzy would never call the two of them friends. There was a lot of history there. It would take more than half a decade for them to get over it. Blaster could seriously hold a grudge.   
  
“Yeah, thanks for the love,” Frenzy shouted at Blaster’s back.   
  
The moment the other dock was out of sight, Frenzy dove at the box of treats in Eject’s clutches. “He said for you to share!”   
  
Crumbs flecked in all directions as Eject tried to refuse around a mouthful of rust cakes. And was that a mercury glaze? No fair! Eject even stuck out his glossa, losing more crumbs in the process, as he tried to run away with the box of yummies.   
  
Frag that!   
  
Frenzy gave chase.   
  
If any customers came in, well, they’d get over it. The arcade was called Chaos and Noise after all. What else could they expect?   
  


~

  
  
“If you get any more polished, you’ll blend right into the scenery.”   
  
The soft chuckle from behind Sunstreaker was the first indication he wasn’t alone. He should have seen movement in the mirror, but Drift was as sneaky as any one of Jazz’s special ops mechs. How someone with nearly all-white armor could walk around and not be noticed, Sunstreaker would never know.   
  
Sunstreaker snorted and glared harder at the mirror, examining his finish with the sort of intensity he reserved for lining a difficult commission. “Maybe that’s the point.”   
  
In the mirror, he spied white arms encircling his frame from behind before he felt the heat of them, and their owner, pressing against his back. Drift’s engine revved gently, vibrating against Sunstreaker’s armor. His face appeared, chin hooked over Sunstreaker’s shoulder, a gentle smile curving his lips and baring his pointed denta.   
  
“But how is anyone going to compliment you if they can’t see you?” Drift murmured into Sunstreaker’s audial. His palms flattened over Sunstreaker’s ventral, black against black.   
  
Sunstreaker cycled a vent, alarmed to find it shuddery, and rested his hands over Drift’s. “I doubt anyone will want to.”   
  
Drift nipped his audial. “You know better than that,” he chastised, though his gentle tone meant it barely qualified as one.   
  
“I know reality,” Sunstreaker retorted and dropped his gaze from the mirror. He turned away from it, easing out of the comfort of Drift’s embrace. It wasn’t rejection.   
  
Drift’s voice followed him anyway. “You’re just nervous.”   
  
Sunstreaker made a noncommittal noise. He pulled a polishing cloth out of his subspace and focused on an invisible mark on his arm. His back was cold without Drift’s warmth, but it was hard to accept that right now. The anxiety was turning his spark inside out, reminding him all too much of that time spent in Shockwave’s custody.   
  
“Okay!” The door to the dressing room slammed open and Sideswipe came strutting inside, a big grin planted on his lips. “We are ready for opening night. In less than ten minutes, we’re going to razzle dazzle everyone.” Sparkles all but glinted in his optics, his field a rolling burst of excitement, nearly enough to combat the tension in the air.   
  
“Not if no one comes,” Sunstreaker muttered, which he thought was overshadowed by Drift’s excited, “Great!”   
  
Unfortunately, Sideswipe heard him. “What?”   
  
Drift rolled his optics. “He’s nervous.”   
  
“It’s not nerves!” Sunstreaker snapped, his fingers clenched around the polishing cloth, which he only barely resisted from tossing at his idiot twin and their just as idiotic partner.   
  
Sideswipe’s mouth twisted in contemplation. “Bro, we’ve been working on this for months,” he said, and he used that tone. That calm, collected tone Sunstreaker simultaneously hated and craved. “We’ve got a line of mechs out there waiting to see the fruits of our labor. We don’t even have to worry about whether or not we’re going to be a hit. It’s a done deal.”   
  
Sunstreaker nibbled on his bottom lip. Every ventilation was a trembling one. He shook his head. “I changed my mind. This is a bad idea.” He tossed the polishing cloth into a bin and spread his hands. “We’re not opening.” He turned toward the door, fully ready to tell everyone not to bother.   
  
Sideswipe intercepted him before he could take more than three steps. He cupped Sunstreaker’s face, hands gentle as he pulled them together, foreheads coming into soft contact.   
  
“Sunny,” he murmured. “You can do this. We can do this. We’re not alone anymore.”  
  
“No, you’re not,” Drift agreed from nearby, close enough to touch, but always waiting for permission, to be invited, especially in moments of weakness like this.   
  
They were bonded, yes, at the spark even. But they weren’t yet mates. It was a very fine distinction. It was a bond they hadn’t made. They were working on it, little by little, month by month.   
  
Drift understood all too well the kind of life Sunstreaker and Sideswipe had survived. He’d been there with them, before the war, and he’d suffered agony of his own.   
  
He was their first choice, five years ago when Ratchet had told them their options. Former Decepticon or not, Drift was kin. He knew the circumstances which birthed them. He’d clawed his way out of the same gutters.   
  
And this? This terrifying, uncertain, glorious event? It was something Sunstreaker had always dreamed of, even in the dark and the dank and the rot. During the war, he’d buried the longing down deep. He stopped thinking of it as a possibility. Frankly, he didn’t think he and Sideswipe would survive the war.   
  
Now here they were, on the precipice, with everything Sunstreaker had ever wanted, and he was too afraid to seize it. He was too afraid of what failure would mean. Too afraid to even try.   
  
Drift moved closer, reaching with his field first, and when they reached back, Drift once again embraced Sunstreaker from behind. Surrounded by his mates, their warmth and their support, the clatter in Sunstreaker’s armor softened.   
  
This was too hard to do alone.   
  
But he wasn’t. He never had been. He’d always had Sideswipe. And now they, together, had Drift. He felt emboldened by them, drawing strength from the bond.   
  
“All right,” Sunstreaker said as he cycled a ventilation, still shaky, but not unbearable.   
  
He had stood down combiners, super soldiers, and Megatron. He might not have always emerged unscathed, but he’d faced them with his head held high, and a fury in his spark. Surely he could face this, these mechs come to view the very spark of him.   
  
“I guess we shouldn’t keep them waiting,” he said.   
  
Sideswipe grinned and pressed a kiss to Sunstreaker’s forehead. “I’m proud of you.”   
  
“As am I.” Drift squeezed Sunstreaker a little tighter, his lips brushing across the back of Sunstreaker’s shoulder. “Now, should we not get out there? Wouldn’t want to be late for opening night.”   
  
“No, we wouldn’t,” Sunstreaker agreed. He pulsed affection and gratitude into his field.   
  
They separated.   
  
“Now that it’s settled. Here. Put these on quick.” Sideswipe pulled something from his subspace and handed them to Sunstreaker and Drift.   
  
They were small sacks. Sunstreaker frowned and drew open the drawstring, peering inside. It was some kind of fabric? He tugged out something long, flat, and black, and it took him several long seconds to realize what it was.   
  
Sunstreaker rolled his optics. “I’m not wearing a bowtie, Sideswipe,” he said flatly.   
  
“Why not?” his idiot of a twin brother asked. Already in the midst of tying his own white bow and adjusting it at the base of his intake, Sideswipe was all but glowing with glee. “I think it’ll make you look dashing.”   
  
“I can’t wear a hat,” Drift said as he held up what could only be a tophat, sized for Cybertronians of course. And with his helm spurs, Drift couldn’t wear it even if he wanted to.   
  
“Then just put on the bowtie,” Sideswipe said as he whipped out a tophat and planted it on his head, cocked at an angle to avoid the issue of his own sensory horns and give him a somewhat dashing air, if not ridiculous. “There. Perfect.”   
  
Sunstreaker sighed. He swept his palm down his face. “No one’s going to take us seriously if we walk out there looking like this.”   
  
“I don’t know. He may have a point about the tie,” Drift replied as he moved to admire himself in the mirror, the bright red bowtie quite fetching against the black of his intake. “It’s simultaneously nonsensical and charming.”   
  
Great.   
  
Sunstreaker groaned. If Drift was already falling for Sideswipe’s madness, then Sunstreaker had no choice. He would have to play along as well.   
  
He was not, however, wearing the stupid tophat. Let Sideswipe be the only of them sporting the ugly accessory.   
  
“Looking good, handsome,” Sideswipe purred as he draped himself along Drift’s side and nuzzled his cheek against Drift’s, careful not to disturb his tophat. “And thank you for locking up those swords tonight. We can’t be scaring the customers away.”   
  
Drift nibbled on his bottom lip. “You’re welcome,” he said quietly and after a long moment.   
  
That had been a point of long discussion between Sideswipe and Drift for the past month. Sunstreaker had stayed out of it. Privately, he agreed with Sideswipe. But he also understood Drift’s point.   
  
It still felt anathema to Sunstreaker to walk around without being visibly armed. Of course, no one knew about the blades hidden beneath his forearm armor, or the blaster in his thigh compartment. But visible armament was often a warning and deterrent. He felt vulnerable without them, and knew Drift, who had spent far too long in the company of Decepticons, shared the same apprehension.  
  
With a sigh, Sunstreaker tightened the bowtie around his neck. The weight was negligible and he barely felt the smooth touch of the fabric. He peeked into the mirror and had to admit, it didn’t look as bad as he thought it would.   
  
Like the Pit he’d admit it though.   
  
Suddenly, Sideswipe hooked an arm around his midsection and tugged him toward the mirror. He had Drift on his other arm, and he grinned at the sight the three of them made: shiny armor, bowties, and a lone, crooked tophat.   
  
“We look fantastic,” Sideswipe declared.   
  
Drift grinned.   
  
Sunstreaker rolled his optics. He folded his arms over his chestplate, the perfect shine catching a glint of overhead lighting. Though Sideswipe had a point. They looked great.   
  
“Alright, enough preening,” Sunstreaker said. “It’s time to open.”   
  
Time for all of them to realize their dreams.   
  
His mates smiled and Sideswipe tugged them in for a tighter embrace.   
  
It was a brand new world, after all. They need only reach out and take it.   
  


~

  
  
First Aid didn’t exactly leap out of his chair when he heard the chime for the main door go off, but he was close to it. Excitement made his spark skip an oscillation, and he might have flung himself at his office door, hurrying out to greet his visitor. Or well, he hoped it was a visitor and not a patient at any rate.   
  
When Ambulon came around the corner, spotty paint and all, First Aid’s optics brightened in a smile. “Thanks for coming!” he said as he greeted Ambulon with a massive hug, something the self-contained medic had finally opened up to a couple years prior.   
  
Ambulon’s field was amused and appreciative as he returned the embrace with a quick squeeze. “You don’t have to thank me for this kind of thing.”   
  
“Well, I kind of do.” First Aid shrugged and released Ambulon. “I know I didn’t have to be on shift. We’re all supposed to be dismissed, but someone has to be ready for all the high grade related mayhem.”   
  
Ambulon’s smile was soft and sincere. “To be honest, that kind of noisy revelry is not something which appeals to me. I wouldn’t have attended on my own. I would have stayed in Nova Cronum for the same reason.”   
  
First Aid chuckled and turned, gesturing for Ambulon to follow him. “Then it’s a good thing you’re here. You’ll have a better view of the fireworks later, and my window overlooks the stage.”   
  
“All of the entertainment without any of the crowds or ambient noise,” Ambulon murmured. “Yes, that is quite preferable to me.”   
  
“Good.”   
  
The Autobot medbay in Polyhex was located in a building that faced the neutral territory in the middle, where the three cities had started to merge together to form a sort of triumvirate. The memorial obelisk and the spacebridge also occupied this tri-state area and it was where the ever-growing celebratory festival set up every year. Though this year was truly the first time it could be called a festival.   
  
First Aid had a wonderful view of the events, though he didn’t want to attend in person. It had only been five years. He still wasn’t ready to accidentally bump into a Decepticon, former or otherwise, and he’d rather serve his purpose as a medic. Besides, he was on the fast track to being Chief Medic, what with Ratchet gradually stepping back in his duties.   
  
Ratchet, after all, had a youngling to raise.   
  
“And what if I told you our night might involve inventory?” First Aid teased as he led Ambulon to the rather spacious and lush break room. They would still be within audible range of the front chime.   
  
Ambulon twitched. “… even so,” he said.   
  
First Aid chuckled and gestured Ambulon toward the most comfortable seat in the room, located at the best table with the best view of the tri-city area. “Well, we won’t be entirely without fun.”   
  
“Oh?” Ambulon slid into the seat and braced his elbows on the table.   
  
First Aid rummaged in the cabinet for the basket he’d stashed earlier in the week, when Ambulon confirmed that he’d once again be present for their yearly observation of the festivities. It had a delicious array of tasty treats and a few bottles of sweet engex far too weak to get them intoxicated, but pleasant enough to pass the time.   
  
He emerged victorious with the basket and plonked it down in front of Ambulon, sweeping off the cover with a flourish.   
  
“You came prepared,” Ambulon observed with one of his small, telltale grins. He plucked a small box of mercury meltaways from the stack. “And you remembered.”   
  
“That those are your favorite? I sure did.” First Aid dropped into the seat opposite of Ambulon and started laying the spread across the table. “It’s the least I can do if I’m going to steal you away for the evening.”   
  
Ambulon chuckled as he peeled back the wrapping around the meltaways. “Spending time with you is hardly a trial.” He sniffed the candy before he popped it into his mouth – an odd little tic he’d had as long as First Aid knew him.   
  
First Aid grinned behind his mouthplate. “Good to know.” He glanced out the window, where bright lights were already making the night a smear of colors and hundreds of mechs had started to crowd the narrow streets.   
  
Maybe one year, he’d actually go out and join them.   
  
“How’s Nickel by the way?” First Aid asked to change the subject. The former medic for the DJD had been released on parole six months ago and assigned to Ambulon’s supervision in Nova Cronum per her request.   
  
“She’s doing well. She’s made friends with Catscan.” Ambulon took a sip of the engex, his gaze falling to the window as well. “She still despises Autobots, but she has no love for the new Decepticon command either. Very little has changed in that regard.”   
  
First Aid made a noncommittal noise. “It is difficult to blame her. She still hates Grimlock for Tarn’s death, despite knowing he would not have surrendered, and she grieves for Vos.”   
  
“Even murdering psychopaths have someone who love them,” Ambulon murmured. He shook his head. “Our world has become a strange and unusual place.”   
  
First Aid deactivated his mouthguard and snagged one of the rust sticks. “But a better one though. Right?”   
  
Ambulon ate another of the meltaways and made a humming noise of approval in his intake. “Getting better by the day.”  
  


****


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspirational Music: “Lions,” Skillet
> 
> Pairings: Vortex/Bluestreak, Thundercracker/Skywarp/Swoop, Chromedome/Rewind, Sunstorm/Misfire/Bitstream  
> Characters: Ratchet, Red Alert (Sort Of), Smokescreen, Brawl, Slag, Bulkhead

The weight around his intake was negligible, thread-thin, a glint of duryillium which twinkled if it caught the light just right.   
  
It wasn’t immediately visible to the casual observer. Nevertheless, Vortex couldn’t resist touching it, reaching up to trace a knowing finger over the delicate band. The etching in the metal was so light, he couldn’t feel it with his derma. But he knew it was there. He felt the claim deep in his spark, a stamp of belonging for anyone who cared to notice.   
  
“Stop that,” Bluestreak murmured with a warning squeeze to Vortex’s other hand, where their fingers were tangled together, a far more public display of ownership.   
  
“Sorry.”   
  
He obediently dropped his hand as a thrill ran up his spinal strut. His armor prickled as he felt what had to be dozens of optics watching him, scrutinizing the connection between he and Bluestreak. Their relationship had been something of a curiosity to anyone who knew of Vortex’s reputation, and nothing of Bluestreak at all.   
  
This wasn’t the first time they’d gone anywhere in public together. But it was the first time Vortex had been allowed the visible sign of Bluestreak’s ownership, as understated and concealed as it was. Only those in the knowing would even understand what it meant, but that didn’t matter.   
  
What was important was the claim. The bold declaration that this mech belonged to someone.   
  
It was intoxicating.   
  
Vortex’s knees trembled with the urge to drop to them, shove Bluestreak up against a nearby wall, and swallow Bluestreak’s spike in front of everyone. He wanted the careful touch of fingers against the back of his head, too gentle to be commanding, but dominating nonetheless. He wanted to hear the pleased noises in Bluestreak’s intake, the murmured praise, all too intoxicating, far more than any engex.   
  
A moan worked into Vortex’s intake. He swallowed it down, felt the shift of his cables against the light weight of the collar. Claim and reminder. He never wanted to take it off.   
  
“I know you’re excited, but control yourself,” Bluestreak chastised, too soft for any listener to take it as a rebuke. “You swore you could handle it and I trusted that. You’ve earned this reward. Don’t make it become a punishment.”   
  
Vortex’s rotors jittered in their housing. “I’ll behave.” Though the temptation to see what creative penalty Bluestreak had devised was strong.   
  
He had never felt so mastered with so little effort. Vortex had always assumed that pain was the only teacher, the only lord which could ever get through to his processor. The only thing to cut through the layers of training and indoctrination.   
  
He was wrong. Delightfully so.   
  
“I know you will.” Bluestreak squeezed his hand again, less warning and more approval, as he leaned in close, warm heat against Vortex’s side. “It’s why you’ve earned this reward.”   
  
His engine rumbled. He looked straight ahead, gaze measuring the crowd. Categorizing them. Victims and villains. Easy prey and someone who’d be a challenge. Far too many NAILs – and what a clever if rude name that – and not enough Decepticons, and far too few Autobots, even with the farflung soldiers returning in fits and bursts.   
  
Vortex had no idea what Bluestreak intended for them this evening. But just this little admission of their relationship, this small claim, was enough to make his spark shiver. He felt owned in all the best ways.   
  
“And if I behave?” Vortex asked, purposefully sliding his attention away from a familiar face. He remembered interrogating that mech once. He’d had information integral to an Autobot incursion on a Decepticon outpost.   
  
He’d been quick to offer up the details, while choking on his own energon, Vortex’s fingers buried playfully in the slippery lines of his internals. He’d let the mech live, because Ons told Vortex he’d be useful later.   
  
Good for him. Surviving to see the end of the war.   
  
He didn’t see Vortex, the monster passing within a few strides of him. He didn’t see how the creature had been tamed.   
  
What a thrill.   
  
A warm mouth tasted the curve of Vortex’s jaw. He felt the whisper of a heated ex-vent against his intake. “I’ve a flog with your name on it,” Bluestreak murmured, his glossa flicking over a cable before he withdrew to more proper distance.   
  
Vortex worked his intake again. “Where are we going then?” Mental images chased away the echoes of the war, running heat through his lines.   
  
His master was a maestro with a whip. He could cause pain that didn’t burn, that didn’t hurt, but felt so good. The sheer sound of the flog striking against Vortex’s armor was enough to make him aroused in half a second. Just seeing Bluestreak’s fingers stroke the handle as he circled Vortex was enough to make him weak.   
  
Bluestreak chuckled. “Sweets first. I think I want to be spoiled.” His sensory flats twitched. Vortex felt the touch of one against his back, brushing over his rotors.   
  
He had to resist the urge to touch his collar again. To lift his chin and proudly display the ownership encircling his intake.   
  
All in due time.   
  
This was the first step. There were going to be dozens more. Bluestreak had promised, and Vortex had bowed his head to that vow.   
  


~

  
  
It was not empty nest syndrome, no matter what anyone kept saying to his face or whispering behind his back or teasing him with little laughs and coy looks.   
  
It was simply a task Ratchet couldn’t envision handing over to anyone else. He’d helped Wheeljack raise the Dinobots, and he’d never regretted that. He’d taken the Protectobots, and First Aid especially, under his umbrella because they’d needed that support. They’d needed someone to watch over them.   
  
Ratchet was a medic, a doctor, a healer, and that didn’t just mean physical ills. The war had been hard. So hard on him. Repairing his friends and family only to see them injured, possibly even die, over and over. Was it so hard to understand that he wanted to combat that as much as he could with the positive? That he’d prefer to teach and nurture and guide?   
  
He wanted to be needed. He wanted to care. He wanted to help.   
  
He felt a failure because this was the only end they could devise. This was the only solution. There had been other volunteers, but Ratchet had been firm. Adamant.   
  
He would take care of Flare. He would teach and guide and help the newframe find his passion, his spark, his new life. He could care for Flare, without being hampered by the shadow of ‘Red Alert.’   
  
Red Alert was dead. Red Alert had died in the initial Decepticon attack over five years ago. What they had rescued was an empty shell, a drone for lack of a better word. Red Alert was dead, and Flare was not him.   
  
“Ratchet?”   
  
A gentle touch to his side had Ratchet fully alert. He looked over at the mech next to him – blue and purple, visored, crests instead of sensory horns – and drew to a stop.   
  
“Yes, Flare? What is it?”   
  
The light behind the pale visor skittered. Flare’s denta worried at his bottom lip. “My processor hurts,” he admitted with a soft sigh. “I apologize but--”  
  
“It’s all right.” Ratchet squeezed Flare’s shoulder and looked around them, finally spying a break in the crowd. “Come with me. I’ll fix it.”   
  
He towed Flare toward the empty space between two temporary structures, little pop up shops selling merchandise to the festival-goers. Out of the press of the crowd, with the shelters to buffer some of the noise, it was both quieter and less bright.   
  
“Here, let me see your panel,” Ratchet said, careful to keep his tone gentle as Flare offered him his right arm.   
  
Flare was not Red Alert, but so much of Red Alert was in him. Ratchet had learned to be cautious, gentle, to telegraph his actions as much as possible. Flare was always wary, easily startled, and Ratchet did his best to be a buffer against the frights of the world.   
  
Flare’s medical port popped, and Ratchet withdrew a cable, plugging into him. He didn’t need permissions. Ratchet was Flare’s legal guardian. He had absolute access to Flare’s systems, which was unusual but necessary in this situation. To the human’s, Flare’s current processing capabilities would put him about the age of a child.   
  
“Just ventilate for me, sweetspark,” Ratchet murmured as he carefully moved into Flare’s sensory suites, dialing down his receptors so that the loud roar of his audial feed dulled to a murmur. He examined the anti-anxiety scripts written into Flare’s code. Perhaps they’d need to be tweaked again.   
  
Red Alert had always been so advanced. He could have heard a pin drop from a mile away, if he so chose. His vision had been acute enough to detect the depth and origin of a scratch in a mech’s paint job from across the room. His sensory suites were so fine-tuned as to be obnoxious, but he’d learned how to adapt to them.   
  
Flare was still learning. He still needed help.   
  
Ratchet knew the moment he’d dialed things down to a manageable level, for Flare ex-vented his relief and his taut armor relaxed. His field fluttered again, reaching for Ratchet’s, seeking comfort, and he offered warmth and reassurance in return. Ratchet smoothed the ragged edges of Flare’s processor and left behind a small pain script to ease the lingering ache.   
  
“There.” Ratchet gently disengaged and patted Flare’s arm. The panel protecting his medical port snapped shut. “Better?”   
  
“Yes, Ratchet.” Flare smiled, soft and sincere, the brightness returning to his visor. He was such a reserved mech, echoes of Red Alert in the way he carried himself, echoes of of the spark he still was. “Thank you.”   
  
Ratchet gripped Flare’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Anytime, sweetspark. Do you want to go back to the hab?”   
  
Flare shook his head. “No, it’s not that bad. I promise. Just a little too much, but you fixed that. I don’t want to always hide.” His armor fluttered, such a bright and unusual selection of colors, but ones he’d chosen for himself.   
  
“Are you sure?”   
  
“Positive.” Flare straightened, shoulders held back, determination writ into the set of his jaw. “Can we continue please?”   
  
“If you want.” Ratchet released his hand, moving it to Flare’s shoulder instead. He looked over Flare’s head, scanning the crowd and the nearby attractions. “How about the gallery? Should be quiet enough to get your feet beneath you before we risk the crowds again?”   
  
Flare nodded. “That is acceptable. I haven’t seen Sunstreaker or Sideswipe in awhile. We should congratulate them.”   
  
“Yes, we should.” Ratchet urged the younger mech toward the crowd, his hand sliding to Flare’s upper back, between two prominent tires.   
  
They’d opted to alter as much as they could. New name, new paint, new alt-mode. That he’d chosen an alt-mode modeled after Knock Out’s was a point of consternation for Ratchet, but it had been Flare’s choice, so Ratchet had held his glossa. Knock Out, meanwhile, had preened for months.   
  
“Just let me know if it gets to be too much,” Ratchet added as they merged back into the thick press of mechs, most of whom Ratchet didn’t immediately recognize. Their population was growing, not quickly, but growing all the same.   
  
“Yes, Ratchet.” Flare’s field reached out to his with warmth and gratitude, affection also.   
  
It wasn’t empty nest syndrome, Ratchet told himself as he guided Flare toward the gallery. It wasn’t.   
  
Maybe it was, in part, guilt. That in the end, this was the only option they’d had left. To let Red Alert die, and allow his spark to try again, as a new life. He would still have his base coding, that desire to serve, but he could at least choose his loyalties. He could choose his name, his paint, his alt-mode. He could live again, without the burdens of his past life upon him.   
  
Ratchet had been most adamant about the last. Flare should not have to carry the weight of Red Alert. Let Red Alert be among the fallen. Let his name rest with those on the monolith, side by side with his beloved, Prowl. Let Red Alert have his peace.   
  
There were few who knew the truth. That Flare’s spark and Red Alert’s spark were one and the same. Sometimes, if one knew him, echoes of Red Alert were visible in Flare’s carriage. Mere wisps of behavior, but then it was gone again.   
  
It was the best option they had, without memories to offer Red Alert. True, as he matured and settled fully into his coding, he might remember more of Red Alert. What the processor forgot, the spark remembered. One day, Ratchet would have to sit down with Flare and explain to him his origins.   
  
Not tonight, however.   
  
Tonight was for celebration, for Flare taking his first tentative steps into a bright and loud world, where he’d have to battle his extensive sensory suites against the noise.   
  
Ratchet missed Red Alert. Missed the quiet mech with the sense of humor no one would expect of him. He hated that Red Alert himself never got to experience this peace, to relax in it, with Prowl at his side, the two of them finally able to admit their relationship to everyone and publicly bond.   
  
At least, they had Flare. If Red Alert had to die, at least he left them Flare in his place.   
  
Flare was a gift, a treasure, one Ratchet would protect with every strand of his being and every flicker of his spark.   
  
It wasn’t empty nest syndrome, but even if it was, Ratchet preferred this. Teaching and guiding, protecting and nurturing. This was the future he’d always wanted.   
  
And it’d only taken the Pit and high water to get here.   
  


~

  
  
“I knew we should have gone somewhere else first,” Sunstorm said with a little exasperated sigh, though the smile curving his lips belied his irritation.   
  
Thundercracker chuckled and shifted in his seat. “We’re never getting them out of here now,” he agreed as he finished off his drink and set the empty cup on the table.   
  
He looked across the open floor of the arcade and found his partners embroiled in a three on three championship against Sunstorm’s trinemate. They’d moved on to some kind of dancing game, but earlier, they’d been battling one another in various sports-related challenges on the Cybertronian-scaled Wii.   
  
At the moment, it was a bitter contest between Skywarp and Misfire, with Swoop cheering both of them on from the sidelines. The music of the game was obnoxious, but the sight of his partners grinning and having fun made up for it. Barely.   
  
It was loud in here. Thundercracker would have preferred some quiet drinks in Visages, perhaps some snuggling in a dim booth. Or even a walk through the festival grounds, hand in hand with Skywarp or Swoop, with a pause at the concert venue. A little dancing even, if the mood struck him.   
  
This raucous descent into bitter rivalry had never been on the agenda. But Skywarp had asked and Swoop had echoed him with big, watery optics. Thundercracker had been unwilling to turn either of them down.   
  
That was an hour ago.   
  
Sunstorm and his trine had shown up twenty minutes after Thundercracker and his partners, with Misfire gleefully bouncing up to Skywarp and joining the party. Sunstorm had joined Thundercracker at the table at a more sedate pace, with Bitstream trailing in his wake. They’d both sat down with a resigned air.   
  
“Misfire asked,” Bitstream said, and honestly, that was all the explanation they’d needed. Because both Sunstorm and Bitstream had given Misfire such indulgently sappy looks as their brightly colored third shouldered his way into the next match.   
  
Speaking of Bitstream, there he was, returning triumphant with a tray of more drinks and snacks for their table. He’d resigned himself to staying here the rest of the evening long before Thundercracker and Sunstorm and had offered to go retrieve supplies for their stay.   
  
“The service in this place is abysmal,” he said with an ever present scowl. He carefully set the tray onto the table and slouched into the seat next to Sunstorm. “I don’t think either of those two are old enough to have a business license.”   
  
“Eject is probably the oldest mech in here,” Thundercracker corrected as he grabbed a drink from the tray – sadly, neither engex nor high grade. “Believe it or not.”   
  
“I don’t.” Bitstream harrumphed, but he did tilt into Sunstorm’s side, leaning toward the embrace of his trine leader.   
  
Their paint was a contrast of brightness, Thundercracker reflected, with Bitstream a similar blue to Thundercracker’s own, but more reflective and vivid. Not long after agreeing to Sunstorm’s courtship had Misfire adjusted his own paint as well. Still purple and black, the purple now had an optic-watering brightness to it.   
  
Highlighter-bright, as the humans might call it.   
  
Sunstorm chuckled. “There, there,” he said as he patted Bitstream’s hand, which rested on the table. “Thank you for getting the snacks, Bitsy.”   
  
Bitstream scowled at the nickname, but didn’t correct it. He’d gotten used to it, Thundercracker surmised. Most often, said cute names came from Misfire, but Sunstorm had picked up the habit as well. Bitstream had been trined to them for the better part of the year. He knew what he was getting into when he accepted their courtship.   
  
Three years ago to the day, in fact, if Thundercracker recalled. Bitstream had arrived with another group of Decepticon defectors, those who still considered themselves Decepticons but apart from Megatron’s rulership. They’d been led by a mech named Deathsaurus, a massive beastformer who quickly endeared himself to Grimlock for his ethical standards and sense of fairplay. Grimlock pulled Deathsaurus into his command ranks as soon as he could, which wasn’t unexpected, considering he’d lost Krok as a sub-commander.   
  
Save for the top three positions, the Decepticon leadership was still in a state of flux. Mechs retired to pursue a post-war occupation. Others stepped up to take their place, not ready for life outside the rigidity of an army’s command structure. And still more abandoned the leadership roles they’d never wanted in the first place.   
  
Mechs like Thundercracker.   
  
“He’ll have to stop eventually,” Sunstorm said with a critical optic Misfire’s direction. “I can’t miss the ribbon cutting. Starscream will have my wings if I do.”   
  
“You might have to go without him,” Thundercracker said with a chuckle. He snagged an oilcake from the tray. “In fact, leave him with my idiots and the three of us can go.”   
  
Sunstorm snickered.   
  
“That might actually be for the best.” Bitstream fiddled with his drink, an obnoxiously pink concoction that seemed at odds with his personality. “He would only get bored and start making faces again.”   
  
Ah, Misfire. Ever respectable in the face of responsibility.   
  
“How is that going, by the way?” Thundercracker asked of Sunstorm. “I know Star can be… difficult.”   
  
Sunstorm’s amusement softened to admiration. “Not as much as he used to, I think. Without Megatron around to harass him, he’s easy to work with. I mean, he’s not the only person I know who suffers from a lack of tact.” He shrugged.   
  
“Among other things,” Thundercracker said and echoed Sunstorm’s shrug. “Well, that’s good to hear. I’d feel guilty if I tossed a burden on your shoulders that was an aggravation as well.”   
  
“It’s not,” Sunstorm reassured him and sipped at his own drink, a plain cube of mid-grade. “It’s what I’ve always wanted, truth be told. I thank you for the opportunity. I know it must have been difficult--”  
  
“Easier than you’d think,” Thundercracker interrupted, but gently. He offered Sunstorm a small smile. “Star’s my trinemate, and I love him, nothing will ever change that. But I don’t want the responsibility of being his second. I never have. Trust me, this is for the best. For everyone.”   
  
Sunstorm seemed to settle into his chair, as though he needed the relief of Thundercracker’s reassurance. He’d been so reluctant at first, convinced he wasn’t skilled enough, or capable, or that he was usurping something important to Thundercracker. It had taken him awhile to be convinced.   
  
Thundercracker, however, had always been sure. He was more than ready to retire, and Sunstorm was more than ready to take over. Thundercracker was much happier in his current position.   
  
A loud cheer and shout filled the already noisy room. Thundercracker followed the outcry to the game where his partners and Misfire had their hands raised in victory. Skywarp gave Misfire a high-five and then leapt into Swoop’s arms for a messy kiss and embrace. Swoop, he noticed, outright groped Skywarp’s aft in front of all and sundry. Celebrating a win on a game like he’d just solved their repopulation crisis.   
  
Idiot.   
  
Thundercracker shook his head. An idiot he loved, to be fair.   
  
“All votes for leaving them here?” Sunstorm suggested with a wicked grin as he sipped on his drink.   
  
Thundercracker took a huge bite of his oil cake, wiping away the crumbs from the corner of his mouth. “Aye,” he said, echoing Bitstream who was rolling his optics at the antics of their respective partners.   
  
Sunstorm laughed. “It’s settled then. When it’s time, off we go, and they can stay here and have all the fun they want while we do some work.”   
  
Thundercracker honestly couldn’t see how that was any different than usual. He loved Skywarp dearly, but his trinemate simply wasn’t made for the boring duties. The rapid calculations required for his warping meant that his processor wasn’t suited for being idle or focusing on topics he considered boring. Meanwhile, Swoop had his hands full with his medical training under no less than three mentors.   
  
“Sounds like a plan,” Bitstream said and pulled another treat off the tray.   
  
Thundercracker snorted and settled in to watching their respective partners make fools of themselves.   
  
Post-war New Cybertron was a strange place indeed.   
  


~

  
  
“You know, there’s a festival going on outside,” Chromedome said from where he sat backward on a chair, watching Rewind who was hunched over a recently recovered text, so ancient it was stored on flimsy datasheets rather than a datapad.   
  
It was a miracle it had survived he fall of Cybertron.   
  
“I know,” Rewind replied without looking up. “But this is just as fun, isn’t it?”   
  
Chromedome chuckled and braced his arm on the back of the chair, his chin on his elbow. “Well, I do enjoy watching you. But wouldn’t joining the festivities be fun, too?”   
  
Rewind ever so carefully turned a page before he shifted in the chair to meet Chromedome’s gaze. “As long as I’m with you, I’m happy. But I see your point.” He chuckled and slid down from the chair, padding over to where Chromedome waited. “What is it you want to do? Go dancing? Shopping?” He paused. “Visit the gallery?”   
  
Chromedome reached out and snagged Rewind’s arm, pulling him closer. It was an easier feat, considering his reach was nearly double Rewind’s. “I can guess what you want,” he said as he leaned back and tugged the cassette into his lap. “The gallery.”   
  
“I guess I’m pretty predictable.” Rewind straddled his hips, hands hooked on the bars of Chromedome’s alt-mode. “But you never answered my question.”   
  
“We could go dancing.” Chromedome cupped Rewind’s aft, bringing their frames closer together, soaking in the heat of the smaller mech. “We could, at least, stop by Swindle’s shop and grab a box of those candies you like so much.”   
  
Rewind chuckled and pressed his mouthplate into the crook of Chromedome’s intake, taunting him with a touch that didn’t come. “I’m sorry, Domey. I know I’ve been busy categorizing all these flimsies Cliffjumper brought me.”   
  
“It’s all right. I understand your work is important to you.”   
  
“And so are you.” Rewind wriggled in Chromedome’s lap, his aft bouncing quite enticingly. “I also promised you my full attention tonight, and so far, I’ve been an aft in regards to that promise. So if you want, we can go dancing.”   
  
Chromedome tilted his head against Rewind’s as their fields tangled together effortlessly. Rewind was far more skilled at energy manipulation than Chromedome was, which he suspected was due to the fact Rewind was so much older than he. Sometimes, it was difficult to remember that little fact.   
  
His hands slid up and down Rewind’s back, thin fingers tracing barely present seams. “Honestly, it doesn’t matter what we do.”  
  
“You just want my attention,” Rewind finished for him and rested his head on Chromedome’s chestplate. “Ask me something hard, why don’t you?”   
  
“Be mine forever?” Chromedome murmured.   
  
Rewind vented a sigh. “One of these days, I’ll say yes and mean it.” His field wrapped around Chromedome’s like a secondary embrace. “But how about this instead? You and me, a blanket, the roof of this building, and the best view of the fireworks on all of New Cybertron?”   
  
“Sounds perfect.”   
  
Someday, Chromedome knew, he might be able to convince Rewind to be his and his alone. For now, he would have to be content with sharing Rewind with his brother, his fellow cassettes, and Blaster. That was the way the world worked when it came to docks and their cassettes.   
  
He couldn’t blame Rewind for his reluctance. They had, after all, only known each other for half a decade. Barely a blip in the lifetime of the average Cybertronian. It would take much, much longer before Rewind could be convinced into a stronger level of commitment.   
  
For now, Chromedome would simply have to be patient. He’d made his offer. All that remained was for Rewind’s trust to lead to acceptance of it.   
  
“Good.” Rewind patted Chromedome on the chest and then leaned back. “Then you go find us a blanket and I’ll just make sure these flimsies are put up somewhere safe, and I’ll meet you on the roof?”   
  
“As long as you don’t get distracted and forget,” Chromedome teased as he rose to his feet and gently set Rewind on his own. Sometimes, their height difference bordered on ridiculous, but Chromedome didn’t pay it any mind. Who cared what other people said or thought?   
  
They couldn’t even touch on the happiness swelling in his spark.   
  
“Promise I won’t.” Rewind snagged his hand and pressed his mouthplate to the back of Chromedome’s knuckles. “Just you and me, Domey. Just like you wanted.”   
  
Chromedome wouldn’t have it any other way.   
  


~

  
  
It was a universal constant.   
  
Businesses were few and far between on New Cybertron. They had at least one of the basics, supplies and the like, but when it came to variety, New Cybertron was sorely lacking. Especially in the neutral territory among the three cities.   
  
But universal constancy.   
  
Where there was habitation, there was a bar. And where the economy began to stabilize, there was always going to be another bar. Because mechs in need of a little intoxication and relaxation wanted to have options.   
  
They could have gone to Visages, but Smokescreen knew his mechs. They’d opted for the rough and tumble of Swerve’s instead. He’d have to make it up to Cliffjumper later, or at least pop in and say hello. He was so proud of the half-pint. And anyway, that one-half of Smokescreen’s gambling crew was some kind of Decepticon meant he probably shouldn’t take them to Visages anyway.   
  
Though he wasn’t sure Brawl counted as a Decepticon anymore.   
  
Besides, here in Swerve’s, they didn’t have to behave. They could be as loud and uncouth as they wanted to be. Plus, sometimes they could convince the titular bartender to sit down and play with them and score up some free drinks.   
  
“All right, mechs, what’s the score tonight?” Smokescreen asked as he pulled out dice, cards, and betting chips. He set them on the table in front of him. “Poker? Blackjack? Yahtzee?”   
  
Brawl snorted. “Yahtzee?”   
  
“It human game. With dice,” Slag answered as he settled down in his chair, which creaked alarmingly beneath his bulk, but held steady. “Me no like it.”   
  
“Why not Uno? Or Phase 10?” Smokescreen suggested with a smirk. “Those are always fun.”   
  
Bulkhead rolled his optics. “Except the last time we played those, we got thrown out on our afts for getting too rowdy. In this bar, of all places, which lets Wreckers dance on the tables for Primus’ sake.” He leaned forward, bracing his brawny arms on the table, which groaned in displeasure.   
  
“It not my fault,” Slag growled.   
  
“It’s entirely your fault,” Brawl said with a laugh as he jostled Slag with his elbow, though jostle wasn’t quite the word for the near-push it actually was. “For a ‘bot who hates to lose, you sure do like gambling.”   
  
“Dinobots no lose!” Slag snorted fire from his nasal ridge, the hot puff of it flooding across the table and causing gray smoke to rise from his nostrils. “Me Slag say him Smokescreen cheated.”   
  
“Smokescreen cheating is a given at this point,” Bulkhead pointed out as he pushed to his feet, shoving the chair out from behind him. “You three pick what we play. I’ll get the first round of drinks.” He held up a finger. “But just because I’m feeling generous.”   
  
“I don’t always cheat!” Smokescreen retorted, indignant. His doorwings hiked up on his back, rigid and playing at outrage.   
  
Brawl huffed as Bulkhead ambled away from the table, quite nimbly for a mech of his size honestly. “Yes, you do,” he said, aiming a finger at the middle of Smokescreen’s chestplate. “Except we’ve cottoned on to it, and we compensate now.”   
  
“That doesn’t even make sense,” Smokescreen retorted. He swept up the dice and left out the cards. “We’re going to play Poker then. Since you’re all refusing to make a choice.”   
  
Slag leaned over the table and snatched the cards before Smokescreen could reach for them. “Me Slag dealer. Only one not cheat.”   
  
“It’s true. He never cheats.” Brawl nodded solemnly.   
  
Slag smirked.   
  
He and Brawl bumped fists, like the best of brothers, only they weren’t related. Years later, and their friendship was still something of a mystery to Smokescreen, who had observed all kinds of interesting connections being made among the Autobots, Decepticons, Neutrals, and everyone else who’d returned to Cybertron.   
  
Bulkhead returned, dropping a tray on the table which was overladen with mugs of engex – whatever Swerve had on tap and was cheap.   
  
“What? Couldn’t spring for something better?” Smokescreen asked as he snagged one of the mugs and took a sip. It was bitter and bubbly, but he knew it would burn just right in his belly.   
  
“Don’t be ungrateful. It’s free,” Bulkhead grunted and slid back into his chair, eying the table. “What’d we decide on?”   
  
“Poker,” Brawl said as he plunked an auto-feeding straw into the end of his mug. Taste didn’t matter to him, only the ability to achieve intoxication.   
  
“You lot have no creativity.” Bulkhead said and tapped the table in front of him. “Deal me in anyway. What’re the stakes this time?”   
  
It wasn’t, after all, like New Cybertron really had a functional economy. They were mostly cred-less, with Swindle the only mech who really had any credits or shanix to speak of, since he did a lot of off-world trade. Everyone else banked on a planet-wide system of give and take.   
  
The betting chips were whatever they wanted them to be. Sometimes percentages of a drink order. Other times fancy tins of wax and polish. But most often--  
  
“Rust sticks!” Slag declared with a gleam in his optics. “Me Slag like rust sticks.”   
  
\--candy. If there was one thing soldiers liked, it was candy.   
  
Smokescreen chuckled. “Well, we can hardly argue with a fire-breathing Dinobot, now can we?” He winked at Slag who grinned with a mouthful of denta. His horns wriggled excitedly. “Rust sticks it is.”   
  
“I can live with that,” Bulkhead said.   
  
“Fine. But next time, we gamble for drinks,” Brawl said and there was a clunk as he nudged Slag beneath the table, possibly with his foot. “Deal us in, Slag.”   
  
The Dinobot laughed and started flicking cards across the table with practiced ease. Given that they’d made a habit of meeting once a week for games, this didn’t come as a surprise.   
  
A Dinobot, a gambler, a military tank, and a space bridge engineer. It almost sounded like the beginning of some kind of joke  
  
Smokescreen grinned as he picked up his cards with absolutely nothing to make any use of. This was still the most fun he’d had in centuries.   
  
Thank Primus the war was over.   
  


***


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Victorious,” Panic! At the Disco
> 
> Pairings: Grimlock/Starscream, Cyclonus/Tailgate, Knock Out/Snarl/Breakdown  
> Characters: Scourge, Skyquake, Hot Rod
> 
> This chapter is where the story starts earning it’s “M” Rating.

They were going to be late.   
  
It was a passing thought, chased away almost immediately by a particularly powerful thrust. It ground over his ceiling node and sent lightning down his spinal strut. Pleasure eclipsed rational thought, leaving Starscream panting and strutless, pinned between the wall and his lover.   
  
They were wasting solvent, too. The entire point of the shower had been to get clean. But Grimlock had looked at him with that glint in his visor, the one that made Starscream shiver from head to foot, feeling desired and loved. He’d surrendered to Grimlock’s groping hands and couldn’t manage a single protest as Grimlock lifted him up and slid into him in a single thrust.   
  
Starscream had moaned, valve tingling, still wet and open from their earlier fragging. It was hard not to want Grimlock. It was hard to deny himself this outright pleasure. His thighs spread wide around Grimlock’s bulk, the thick width of Grimlock’s spike gliding over every inner node, building the pleasure to a quick crescendo.   
  
Starscream made a sound now, closer to a whimper, and tightened his grip on Grimlock’s shoulders. His thighs trembled. The sound of Grimlock’s ventilations, heavy and hungry and stuttered, echoed in the washrack.   
  
Starscream’s chronometer chimed another reminder.   
  
They were going to be late.   
  
He gasped out as much.   
  
Grimlock chuckled and tucked his face into the crook of Starscream’s neck, his mouthguard vibrating. “They can’t start without us,” he said and his hands tightened on Starscream’s hips, pulling him down until he was fully sheathed, and his spikehead played merry havoc on Starscream’s ceiling node.   
  
“We’re … ah… Decepticon command,” Starscream managed to stutter as another wave of ecstasy made his valve ripple and his main node throb. He was perilously close to overload already. “It’s bad politics.”   
  
Grimlock’s amusement rumbled in his chest, and vibrated against Starscream’s cockpit. “Frag politics,” he growled.   
  
Starscream smirked and dug his claws into a seam, scraping over the sensitive cables beneath. “Would rather you frag me instead.”   
  
His wings scraped against the wall, causing a dissonant sensation of pleasure and pain, as Grimlock thrust into him, hard and deep. Starscream moaned, head tossed back, claws scraping lines in Girmlock’s paint as overload struck. His valve clamped down, milking Grimlock’s spike for each surge of charge. His own spike spattered transfluid between their frames.   
  
He rode the waves of pleasure eagerly, even as Grimlock ground deeper and deeper, caressing his nodes to extend the overload. Starscream panted for ventilations, his thighs trembling, as Grimlock gripped his hips and started to thrust, each more powerful than the last, pinning Starscream against the wall.   
  
Ecstasy sent sparks along Starscream’s frame. Dizzy, he caressed Grimlock’s cables with his talons as Grimlock forehead tucked into the crook of his neck, ex-vents blasting heat against Starscream’s frame.   
  
“Overload inside me, my lord,” Starscream purred, his lips caressing Grimlock’s audial as he felt Grimlock’s grip tighten around him. “You are welcome to it.”   
  
Grimlock shuddered. A low sound rose in his intake, one of arousal and need, and Starscream preened at how easily he could make his lover come undone. Grimlock’s pace stuttered, his thrusts harder and deeper, until he stiffened and overloaded, transfluid a searing wash over Starscream’s sensitive nodes.   
  
He moaned as another, smaller overload wracked his valve, his calipers fluttering madly around Grimlock’s spike. Starscream rolled his hips, grinding down, the rim of his valve massaging the small rise in Grimlock’s spike. No knotting this time, they did have a schedule to keep after all.   
  
But the memory of that pleasure was enough.   
  
“You…” Grimlock growled through the aftershocks of ecstasy, the washrack still beating down at them with hot washes of solvent, “are a menace.”   
  
“You’re just now figuring this out?” Starscream purred as his claws dipped further into seams, stroking the undersides of armor panels. “My you are slow on the uptake, my lord.”   
  
Grimlock lifted his head, visor a bright wash of hunger. His spike twitched in Starscream’s valve, still pressurized as though he hadn’t soaked Starscream in his transfluid already. He started to shift, light and slow pushes that sent a wave of reawakened pleasure through Starscream’s valve.   
  
Starscream gasped and arched his backstrut. “We’re going to be late,” he reminded Grimlock, though there was less force behind it then he would have liked.   
  
“They’ll wait for us,” Grimlock said, and the slow drag of his spike over Starscream’s excited nodes chased away any other protest.   
  
He had a point, after all.   
  
The rest of the world could wait.   
  


~

  
  
It was not compulsive behavior, no matter what anyone insisted. Scourge simply believed in the weight of his duty, and would sooner die than see himself fail. It was important to him. It was necessary.   
  
And if that required he double-check behind himself, well, who could blame him? He was only tasked with one of Iacon’s most important responsibilities, one that the Autobots in Polyhex and the Neutrals in Nova Cronum did not have to face. They did not have prisoners and criminals to be concerned with.   
  
They did not have a handful of super soldiers in their basement, under lock and key, stripped of all processing capabilities, with sparks capable of turning into bombs if improperly extinguished. Overlord, Black Shadow, and Sixshot – their minds had been wiped. They were all but machine without memory and free will.   
  
That did not make them any less dangerous.   
  
Scourge made a point to assess their confinement on a daily basis. The three of them were enough to destroy all of New Cybertron if they so wished. While they could not do so at the moment, it would only take a single lapse in judgment. The wrong mech with the right intel, sneaking inside and freeing them of their cage.   
  
Not on Scourge’s watch.   
  
There had been talk only once of giving another life to the supersoldiers. Perhaps allowing them freedoms under a new identity, wiping them clean as Red Alert – now Flare – had been. That idea had been quickly set aside. No need for a hasty decision with such dangerous, unstable mechs.   
  
Scourge agreed.   
  
The supersoldiers were the worst of what sat locked in the prison beneath Decepticon central. But they weren’t Scourge’s only responsibilities.   
  
Barricade, also, was present, and like Dirge, would never be released. If there was a candidate for execution, especially given he had no other use for the common good, Barricade fit the bill.   
  
He would never apologize. He would never regret. He would, as Starscream determined not long after his arrest, re-offend.   
  
It had been a particularly chilling conversation, one Scourge wished he hadn’t witnessed. As Barricade admitted, with a smirk, to a nauseating list of victims, not all of whom had been Autobots. He had, over the course of the war, taken many Decepticons as well, most of them against their will, all of whom did not remember. Unless, of course, Barricade chose to allow them to remember.   
  
The fear, he’d said, was the tastiest.   
  
Dirge was not as lost as Barricade, but he was another without remorse. Autobots, he’d claimed, were lesser creatures, and grounders besides. They were meant to be beneath Decepticons. Victory had been Megatron’s, and the rewards his to offer. That he and his trinemates had interfaced an Autobot to death didn’t seem to weigh at all on his conscience.   
  
Monsters, Scourge decided.   
  
There were monsters in the world.   
  
Scourge had other detainees under his oversight, though these mechs were considered to have promise.   
  
Motormaster and Dead End had already been released into the custody of one Autobot Kup, who had reassured everyone he would find something of worth in their sparks. Compassion, Kup claimed, was often the key to success. And they were, in his optics, little more than misguided sparklings.   
  
Lost causes even. Ultra Magnus had leaned in, with a quirk to his lips, to inform Scourge that lost causes were something of Kup’s expertise. He’d then tilted his head in Drift’s direction – Deadlock, Scourge recognized immediately – as if to prove the point.   
  
Scourge had signed the transfer orders then and there. From what he’d heard, Kup was making headway with the two headstrong Stunticons. It was one less burden for Scourge to carry. He had enough of them as it was.   
  
“You’re going to be late.”   
  
Scourge didn’t bother to look up from his paperwork, making a tic mark next to Shockwave. Present and accounted for, there in his basement lab with his overseer watching his every move.   
  
“Our fearless leaders are always late,” Scourge replied. “I’ll be fine.”   
  
Skyquake, his second, laughed. “If I had Starscream in my berth, I’d be late, too,” he commented as he leaned against the door frame, one arm folded over the other. His wings folded against his back, not unlike a Seeker’s, though Skyquake was of a different sort.   
  
He and his squadron had arrived two years after the signing of the treaty. Skyquake took to the peace like a Sharkticon to the Rust Sea. He reveled in it. And sometimes, Scourge caught him looking to the sky, waiting for his twin to arrive as well.   
  
Dreadwing, Skyquake had said with a crooked grin and a lonesome cant to his optics, would enjoy the peace even more than Skyquake. Once he got over Megatron losing to a beastformer. And said beastformer being their leader now.   
  
Scourge’s lips curved into a grin to match Skyquake’s. “Indeed.”   
  
He bent his attention back to his lists. There were five Constructicons on it, as a matter of course. Only one actually graced a cell right now – Hook, who was being most stubborn, perhaps out of a sense of pride. There was history between he and the Autobot Chief Medic, a history that held Hook back from moving forward remorsefully.   
  
The other Constructicons were improving. They entirety of the Devastator gestalt had their obedience coding removed, similar but different in effect from what had haunted the Combaticons. But more than that, the false programming had been removed as well. What remained was complicated. They’d been laboring under it for so long, some had rooted into their base coding. Overcoming that would take time.   
  
They would never be what they were. But they had a chance now. They were learning remorse. They understood that Megatron’s path was not one they had to follow. In that, they were like the Stunticons, almost sparkling in behavior, needing to learn a proper moral code all over again.   
  
Scourge did not know if he could convince any of the Constructicons to apologize and exhibit remorse. Most of them, Hook especially, cited that because they were nonconsensually reprogrammed, they could not be held responsible for their actions. Scourge – and Grimlock and Starscream – disagreed. It was a sticky situation.   
  
Like it nor not, however, they did need the Constructicons. Of them, only Scavenger seemed to carry visible remorse. Upon realizing that his interactions with Ratchet were a crime, that he was not being kind, Scavenger had been horrified. He had vowed to do whatever necessary to make amends.   
  
Scavenger was the only Constructicon on actual parole, though he was under the supervision of the New Cybertron Rebuilding Team headed by the former Wrecker Bulkhead.   
  
Bonecrusher and Long Haul had limited parole. All they wanted was to build. They submitted to any restrictions and any supervision deemed necessary by Scourge. Their behavior toward the Autobot medic had been a matter of convenience, not true desire. Their potential to re-offend was all but negative. They were not as remorseful as Scavenger, because to them it had not been illegal at the time. Yes, poor taste, but technically allowed by their commanding officer.   
  
It left a sour taste in Scourge’s mouth. He hoped time would change their point of view. Though only the rational side of him understood what they meant. Soldiers, following orders. Soldiers, who had no choice but to follow the moral compass of their immoral leader.   
  
Sticky situation indeed.   
  
Scrapper, as their leader, had made concessions, few though they were. He’d conceded that he and his team had acted in poor taste, that following Megatron’s example was no excuse. He stated such behavior would not occur again, and that they would lend their strength and sparks to the reconstruction of Cybertron.   
  
Scrapper intended to apologize once, and only once. He would concede no more than that.   
  
It was better than nothing, Scourge supposed. He doubted the Autobots would not be mollified with such half-afted remorse. There were many, he knew, who would prefer if every last prisoner in Decepticon cells be executed on the spot.   
  
Such a thing could not come to pass.   
  
Perhaps it was the optimism, Scourge pondered. He’d never thought himself optimistic before, but he felt it now. Mechs could change. Mechs could learn. He needed to believe that.   
  
Certainly his own hands weren’t free of misdeeds. It had been a long, dangerous war. He might have never laid hands on an unwilling partner, but he’d certainly killed. He’d laid waste to Decepticon enemies. He’d done his fair share of evil things.   
  
Remorse could be a heavy burden.   
  
Skyquake shifted. Coughed. Reminded Scourge that he was still here. Though Scourge couldn’t fathom why.   
  
“I’ll attend the ceremony then relieve you,” Scourge said as he made another tic mark, getting closer to the end of his list. Slowly but surely, he was running out of prisoners to monitor. It was a good problem to have. “This is a celebration no one should miss.”   
  
Skyquake snorted. “Except you apparently.”   
  
“We all have our duties.”   
  
Scourge’s stylus paused on the next two names – Helex and Tesaurus, who had reverted to their prior designations of Crucible and Scissorsaw. They had been practically model prisoners since their incarceration in the battle which lost them Tarn and Vos. They had only recently petitioned to have hearings for some kind of parole.   
  
Other than their past actions as members of the DJD, Scourge had no reason to deny them. Which put him in a quandary. What could one do with a former member of the DJD? Were they dangerous? It was too difficult to say.   
  
Kaon, by contrast, had spoken barely a handful of words since the DJD’s defeat. He’d only spoken long enough to claim that everyone’s choices from this moment hence were their own. He would not bar anyone of the DJD from reforming, if they so choose. When pressed to voice desires for his own fate, Kaon had only looked at them with that dead-optic stare.   
  
Creepy was what it was.   
  
Maybe someday he’d tire of his silence. Until then, he seemed pretty comfortable in the brig.   
  
“Yours isn’t to not have any fun, you know,” Skyquake commented, dragging Scourge out of his thoughts.   
  
Scourge frowned and looked up, his forehead crinkling. “There are far too many negatives in that sentence, Skyquake.”   
  
“Are you going to chastise me for my grammar? Seriously?” Skyquake rolled his optics and straightened. “When was the last time you had any kind of fun, sir?”   
  
It was the ‘sir’ that chased away Scourge’s frown. He’d never demanded ‘sirs’ from any of his subordinates. Clearly, this was a conversation he was meant to give his full attention.   
  
“Fun is a concept long forgotten in the eons of war,” Scourge said carefully.   
  
Skyquake rolled his shoulders in a great shrug. “Look. All I’m saying is that if Cyclonus can snag himself a cute minibot to wipe that perpetual gloom from his face, I’m thinking you can unbend enough to find happiness, too. With a partner or not.”   
  
Scourge searched his second’s face and found nothing but sincerity present. Worry even. As the three factions started to move forward, as New Cybertron took shape, everyone was building a new life for themselves out of the ashes of the war.   
  
Scourge had yet to embrace it fully.   
  
“You may have a point,” Scourge admitted. He set his stylus down with a click and powered down his datapad. Ruminating over Kaon’s future and Bludgeon’s unfortunate fate could be saved for another evening. One where there wasn’t celebration to be found.   
  
Besides, he would be even later than Grimlock and Starscream if he didn’t get moving now.   
  
“I’ll leave the prisoners in your care then?” Scourge stated as he rose from behind his desk, glancing briefly at himself. He was fairly immaculate already, but it never hurt to double-check.   
  
“Until Blackout comes to relieve me anyway,” Skyquake agreed with a chuckle. “Fragger better not show up overcharged, or I’ll have his rotors.”   
  
Now that was a clash Scourge would pay to see. Fierce Skyquake against solid Blackout. They were of a height, of a mass, equally trained.   
  
Scourge chuckled and headed for the doorway, where Skyquake waited. “I suppose time will tell. Have a good evening, Skyquake.”   
  
His second clapped him briefly on the shoulder, dark green plating a contrast to the pale blue of Scourge’s. “You’d better have fun.”   
  
Despite himself, Scourge smiled. “I shall certainly try.”   
  


~

  
  
Grimlock was bored.   
  
It was getting harder not to show it. Speech after speech. Polite applause after polite smile. It was getting tedious. How long had it even been?  
  
He consulted his chronometer.   
  
Twenty minutes. Only twenty minutes? Clearly, his chronometer was malfunctioning. He’d been standing here for two hours at least, his visor glazing over as another mech stepped up to the front of the podium to read off his speech.   
  
Congratulations and gratitude and excitement and blah, blah, blah. This was an important ceremony, Grimlock knew. What Krok and his compatriots had accomplished here was a very good and necessary thing.   
  
Could they get to the ribbon-cutting already now?   
  
An elbow jabbed into his hip, expertly placed against an armor seam to chime over the cables beneath.   
  
“Pay attention,” Starscream hissed, subvocal that no one should have heard it save Grimlock himself.   
  
“I am,” Grimlock murmured in return, obediently shifting his gaze back to the current speaker. He didn’t really know the mech that well.   
  
Templar was a new arrival, one who had come with the sort of experience Krok had been desperately searching for – he was a psychotherapist. Something every resident of New Cybertron was in dire need of. Ratchet had vouched for him. Smokescreen had hid from him, whatever that meant.   
  
He was one of Krok’s new hires, including another Neutral who arrived later by the name of Cerebro, who was more of a psychiatrist, relying on medscripts and surgeries. Together, they would form the core of the new mental health facility.  
  
In any case, Templar had the sort of low, droning voice that lulled Grimlock into a rest-state. All he wanted to do was recharge just listening to it.   
  
“Then stop fidgeting,” Starscream demanded, just short of a hiss.   
  
Grimlock would never, ever tell him how much he sounded like Ratchet just then. The last thing Starscream needed to hear was that he resembled Grimlock’s creator.   
  
Grimlock shifted his weight pointedly. “I can’t help it.”   
  
“You’re the Decepticon leader!” Starscream hissed for real this time, his elbow digging into Grimlock’s armor seam. “Act like it!”   
  
At the front of the stage, Templar finished his speech, dipping his head to the crowd, as Cerebro stepped up to take his place. Primus, Grimlock had miscounted. They still had another to go!  
  
Grimlock creaked as he leaned toward Starscream, ex-venting a gust of warm heat against his lover. “And you’re not bored, too?” he asked, making a pointed look at the subtle twitching of Starscream’s wings.   
  
“That’s not the point.” Starscream sliced a glance at him, chastising but amused as well.   
  
Grimlock’s visor burned a little brighter. He loosed his control of his field by a small degree, letting the sizzling heat of it caress Starscream. He dragged it over his consort’s field edges, drizzling pleasure in his wake.   
  
He watched Starscream shiver, his optics cycle wide. Starscream’s glossa flicked over his lips, wetting them.   
  
“Isn’t it?” Grimlock purred, though quiet enough not to disturb the newest droning speech. “When this is over, I want to finish what we started this morning. I want to take advantage of our time off, lay you down, and worship you, my Air Commander.”   
  
Starscream’s next vent was a ragged one. “You don’t play fair,” he breathed.   
  
“Not when it comes to what I want.” Grimlock stroked his field along Starscream’s again. “And I’ll always want you.”   
  
He left those words ringing in Starscream’s audials as his periphery awareness registered that someone had called his name. He supposed Cerebro was the last speaker after all, because Krok had now stepped up to the podium and was gesturing for Grimlock.   
  
There was a ragged cheer from the assembled crowd. Grimlock had his fans among the Decepticons, even as there were those who still questioned the legitimacy of his ascension. Only one person had dared to challenge him for the position, and everyone knew what happened to Tarn. No one had tried since.   
  
Grimlock felt the heat of Starscream’s stare burning against his back. He had a feeling he’d be paying for that little tease later.   
  
Good.   
  
Grimlock stepped up to the podium, nodding to Krok as he did so. He looked out the gathered crowd – not the entirety of the Decepticons, but a good mix of all three factions.   
  
“It is my honor and my privilege to stand here tonight and congratulate Lieutenant Krok on this important achievement,” Grimlock stated. His speech had been prepared short and sweet. There’d been enough speechifying already. “This facility will bring all of us – and our planet – one step closer to healing.”   
  
He pulled the scissors out of his subspace and handed them to Krok. They’d adopted this opening day ceremony from the humans. Grimlock liked the symbolism of it, though he could’ve done without all the speeches.   
  
Krok, at least, wasted no time in striding to the glittery purple ribbon and slicing through it with little fanfare. As the two halves fluttered to the ground, Grimlock continued.   
  
“Without further ado, I am proud to announce that The Hospitality House is now open and ready to deliver the highest of care to any Cybertronian in need, regardless of religion or factional allegiance.”   
  
Polite claps rose from the crowd. Those who had worked very hard to make the Hospitality House a reality grinned brightly. Grimlock stepped back and put a blatant arm around Starscream, content to let Krok step up to speak again. Grimlock’s part in this was done.   
  
He tucked Starscream under his arm and leaned down, voice a low murmur meant to resonate in Starscream’s audials. “I’ll bet there are dozens of empty, open rooms in there.”   
  
“Some of them even have restraints strong enough for a supersoldier,” Starscream replied, optics glittering, lips curved with amusement.   
  
Grimlock’s engine growled. He felt the twitch of Starscream’s wings against his arm. “Now who’s being unfair?”   
  
Starscream leaned against his side, a kiss of charge licking against Grimlock’s armor. “Do you want to give our new medical facility a trial run or not?” he murmured, his field nudging Grimlock’s with heated promise.   
  
Arousal thrummed through Grimlock’s lines. “Let’s go.” Krok and the others wouldn’t miss them. Cyclonus and Tailgate had already snuck away. Only Scourge lingered, as Scourge was wont to do. “I’ve a sudden need to taste my consort.”   
  
“And I’ve a sudden urge to let you,” Starscream replied.   
  
A shudder ran through Grimlock’s frame. He curved inward, turning toward Starscream, free hand lifting to cup his Air Commander’s jaw gently. He tilted Starscream’s face upward to look at him, reading the want and need in Starscream’s optics.   
  
“I love you,” Grimlock said, as he had a thousand times already, and would a million times more. Because it was true.   
  
Starscream’s smile was soft, gentle, as he leaned into Grimlock’s touch. “I know.”   
  


~

  
  
The outdoor amphitheater would not have been Cyclonus’ first choice. Affectionately nicknamed The Grand Strand, it was the go-to for trifactional entertainment on New Cybertron. At present, it played host to Jazz and Skybyte’s unnamed duo – trio, actually, including their musically talented manager – but over the past couple years, it had hosted various other types of recreation.   
  
The music was not to Cyclonus’ taste, but Tailgate had asked and Cyclonus hadn’t learned how to deny him. He doubted he ever would.   
  
Besides, the music was not all that was available. There were numerous types of food and drink to be found here, and Cyclonus had indulged. As had Tailgate. Some might even accuse Cyclonus of spoiling him.   
  
Ah, but he deserved it.   
  
Tailgate had tugged Cyclonus to The Grand Strand after the opening ceremony because he’d wanted to dance. Unable to refuse, Cyclonus had allowed himself to be dragged here. Dancing, however, was not his forte. Especially not the energetic, writhing type currently popular with the seething crowd. The music, too, had an upbeat pace to it, undignified at the least.   
  
It was nothing like the music of the Golden Age. Nothing like the solemn tones of the temples in Tetrahex. Nothing like the historical ballads still haunting Cyclonus’ memories. But he supposed it had a charm all it’s own.   
  
Tailgate seemed to enjoy it well enough.   
  
Cyclonus was content to sit at one of the many tables scattered around the periphery of the dance floor. He had a flute of quality engex and an excellent observation point. If his gaze lingered on Tailgate more often than not, well, that was his right as Tailgate’s partner. Tailgate in all likelihood, was dancing in such a manner because he knew Cyclonus was watching.   
  
He’d been so delighted to attend tonight’s festivities, especially since he would be on Cyclonus’ arm. Tailgate held a certain pride, for some reason, and would tell anyone who listened that Cyclonus was his partner. He’d been beyond giddy to stand up on that podium beside Cyclonus.   
  
It was quite adorable.   
  
His excitement was rather infectious, though Cyclonus could not duplicate his visible enthusiasm. He’d much rather watch Tailgate dance, happy in the midst of a sea of frames. Cyclonus only recognized a few, but was unsurprised to see Lieutenant Skids out in the mix. Skids was one of the few Neutrals who had made friendly overtures to everyone, Autobot and Decepticon alike. He was welcome anywhere on New Cybertron as a result.   
  
At present, he was twisting and spinning Tailgate around the dance floor, as Blaster’s cassettes danced around the two of them. Tailgate was laughing – Cyclonus could see the bright sheen of delight in his visor.   
  
Cyclonus sipped at his engex and relaxed into his chair. It was a chilly night, for those who noticed the temperature. The sky was clear, the stars a blurred vista thanks to their constant motion. Streetlamps gave the illusion of day and nightcycles but it was never enough. Someday, perhaps, they might find themselves actually anchored to a solar system.   
  
Now that they were less focused on creating weapons, they actually had the processor power to spare on more important scientific advancements.   
  
Tailgate spied him through the crowd. He gestured for Cyclonus to join him, but Cyclonus merely shook his head. He had no interest in awkwardly moving to the energetic music.   
  
Tailgate’s visor brightened, and his head turned toward Skids. The lieutenant glanced Cyclonus’ direction, his lips curved with amusement, before he shooed Tailgate on. Cyclonus didn’t know which words passed between them, but they encouraged Tailgate to start bouncing out of the crowd, making a beeline for Cyclonus.   
  
Sitting up, Cyclonus pulled Tailgate’s energon out of subspace, setting it on the table for the minibot. Tailgate bounced into view, his field bubbling with excitement.   
  
“You looked lonely over here,” he said as he scooted in next to Cyclonus, grabbing Cyclonus’ right arm and slinging it over his shoulders.   
  
Cyclonus chuckled. “Did I now?”   
  
“Yes. I figured it’s because you missed me.” Tailgate laughed and tucked himself into Cyclonus’ side. “Which could be solved if you’d come dance with me.”   
  
Cyclonus reached for Tailgate’s energon, scooting it closer to his partner. “I am not lonely. And I enjoy watching you enjoy yourself.”   
  
“Yes, I know,” Tailgate said, closer to a purr that had no busy being used in public.   
  
Cyclonus’ faceplate heated. It still shocked him, how easily Tailgate could bring down his walls and remove his reserve. “This is not the place for such talk,” he said quietly, though his fingers found their way to Tailgate’s shoulder, stroking it gently.   
  
“What? That was a perfectly innocent comment.” Tailgate shrugged and his free hand found Cyclonus’ thigh as he caught the end of his straw with his intake port.   
  
Cyclonus’ lips curved. “There is very little innocent about you.” A fact which he’d learned the more he peeled back the layers of their relationship.   
  
“I am the picture of innocence,” Tailgate retorted and slurped at his energon, draining it dry in several long pulls, a sight which did not fail to make Cyclonus heat internally.   
  
Innocent might have been a term Cyclonus would have used to describe Tailgate back when they first met. But he knew better now. Especially given that Tailgate’s hand had begun to creep up Cyclonus’ thigh, toward his groin.   
  
Cyclonus shifted, his gaze going to the crowd, but no one was paying them a bit of attention. Tailgate would be the sort to grope his lover in public, just to see if he could get away with it. Mischievous brat.   
  
Tailgate released the straw with a satisfied sound and set the emptied cube on the table. “I really can’t convince you to join me?” he asked as his fingers came perilously near to Cyclonus’ panel.   
  
Cyclonus worked his intake. “No. I’ll save for my energy for this evening.”   
  
“Well, you’ll need it.” Tailgate’s optics brightened in a grin, his field stroking lascivious over Cyclonus’ before he abruptly hopped down from the chair. “A few more songs and then we can leave, all right? You get to pick where we go next.”   
  
Cyclonus tilted his head. “A fair compromise.”   
  
Tailgate giggled. “I thought so, too.” He backed away, into the throng of dancers. They quickly swallowed him up, but Cyclonus never lost sight of him.   
  
His return to Skids and the cassettes and was greeted with laughter. Tailgate easily found the rhythm again, and soon enough, he was wriggling and dancing to the beat again. The delight in his expression was enough to warm something deep inside Cyclonus. Or perhaps that was the echo of Tailgate’s touch on his thigh.   
  
Cyclonus sipped on his energon as he watched Tailgate, only to find that he’d finished it during his thoughtful observations. He set the empty glass on the table next to Tailgate’s empty cube. He rapped a nonsense rhythm with his fingers as the jaunty music came to an end. Laughter and stomping rose from the crowd – approval for the band.   
  
“This next one is a slow beat,” Jazz said into the mic, condensation a sheen over his armor, but excitement bright in his visor. “So grab that someone special and get to swaying. Show me the love, mechs. I want to feel it in the air.”   
  
The brightly flashing, spinning lights abruptly shifted to a solid, cool glow. Lanterns shone like little spotlights over the floor. Milling dancers grabbed partners, some with obvious affection, others because of proximity. A low, gentle note started to play and Cyclonus’ spark clenched.   
  
This was an old ballad. From Tetrahex.   
  
He cycled a ventilation and then and there, made a decision. He rose to his feet. One dance wouldn’t hurt. He couldn’t ignore the song of reflection, not this bit of history come back to resonate deep within him.   
  
He threaded through the crowd, found Tailgate’s whose back was to him as he watched the band play. Tailgate hadn’t randomly grabbed a partner. Where Skids had gone, Cyclonus didn’t know. He’d vanished, as spies were wont to do.   
  
Cyclonus tapped Tailgate on the shoulder, and as his partner turned, offered Tailgate his hand. “Might I have this dance?” he asked, curving forward to be on a more even keel with the minibot.  
  
Tailgate’s visor grew bright. His field turned warm and affectionate as it poured over Cyclonus. “Really?”   
  
“It is a song for lovers,” Cyclonus replied as Tailgate’s hand slid into his. “And I would share it with no one but you.”   
  
“Of course I will!” Tailgate’s fingers tightened around his, his field eclipsing Cyclonus with joy and love.   
  
Cyclonus hummed and drew Tailgate into his arms, as a ghost from the past in the form of a song, grew and wrapped around him.   
  
Spending a few hours in the Grand Strand might not have been Cyclonus’ first choice, but he was glad they had come after all.   
  


~

  
  
Blurr was going to win. That was a given. Everyone knew it, even the rest of the racers.   
  
Second place, however, was still up for grabs. And Knock Out had already decided that trophy was going to be his. After Breakdown’s massage and Snarl’s specially formulated energon, there was no way he’d lose.   
  
At the starting line with nine other racers, including Blurr, Knock Out stretched. He pulled his arms over his head, lengthening the lines of his cables, drawing them taut. The lights gleamed down on the track, warming his plating, and he felt the regard of dozens of mechs, gathered here for the race.   
  
He had the feeling this was going to be one of New Cybertron’s most popular attractions. The First Annual Lightning Cup was already a success, and they hadn’t even raced yet.   
  
Knock Out scanned the crowd, looking for a specific face, and grinned as he caught Snarl there in the front row, squashed between a Decepticon Knock Out didn’t immediately recognize and an Autobot he did. Snarl even had one of those cheap flags and was waving it wildly.   
  
Knock Out glanced at his chronometer. More than enough time to acquire a bit of luck, as it were. Blurr was still over there, posing for the cameras.   
  
Knock Out snorted. That would be him afterward. He had a plan to ride Blurr’s aft the whole time. Blurr might win, but Knock Out didn’t intend to make it easy for him.   
  
He jogged over to the front row, passing by a few more racers who were stretching and chatting amongst themselves. A hip-high barricade did little more than corral the crowd away from the track. Snarl could have stepped over it if he wanted, it barely reached his knees.   
  
“What you Knock Out doing?” Snarl asked, sounding a little alarmed, as though he thought Knock Out had opted to forfeit the race.   
  
Knock Out grinned and leaned over the barricade, his hands braced on the top of it. “I could use a bit of luck,” he said, his tires setting off into a slow spin.   
  
Snarl shifted toward him, looming over Knock Out easily. The mass of him was as appealing now as it had been the first time he’d swept Knock Out up into his arms and kissed him senseless. There was something indefinably erotic about being able to bring a mech nearly twice his size to his knees with only a look.   
  
“What you want then?” Snarl rumbled, his truncated way of speaking probably rude to the audials of anyone who wasn’t used to it.   
  
Knock Out chuckled. “Are you really going to make me say it?” he purred.   
  
Snarl tipped a finger under Knock Out’s chin, painfully gentle as he tilted Knock Out’s face upward.   
  
“You so pretty,” he rumbled and slanted his lips over Knock Out’s, soft and sweet as always, so careful of his strength, as though Knock Out was something fragile to be protected.   
  
It sent a wave of warmth through Knock Out’s spark. His hands curled against the barricade. A shiver ran down his spinal strut.   
  
He almost forewent the race then and there, but the kiss was over far too quickly to muddle his thinking that far.   
  
“There,” Snarl said. “That for good luck.” His finger tickled under Knock Out’s chin.   
  
“Mm. Yes, it is,” Knock Out breathed.   
  
A loud horn echoed throughout the track – the warning chime for all racers to gather in their assigned lanes. Time to go make history.   
  
Knock Out winked at Snarl and turned, intending to go back toward his spot. But he suddenly had an armful of Breakdown as the Stunticon snatched Knock Out up in an embrace.   
  
“My turn!” he said as his mouth closed over Knock Out’s, the kiss sloppy and inelegant, but full of enthusiasm, as Breakdown always was.   
  
Knock Out laughed into the kiss, warmed down to his spark, feeling charge gather in his lines. He never knew happiness could be defined as this.   
  
“For luck,” Breakdown said against his lips, pressing a kiss to the nearest corner of Knock Out’s mouth.   
  
Another loud honk announced the secondary warning bell as Breakdown’s embrace tightened, and the thrum of his engine vibrated through both of their frames.   
  
“You’re going to disqualify me,” Knock Out said with a laugh as he tried to disentangle himself from clinging arms.   
  
“Not a chance.” Breakdown slanted their lips together again before he finally released Knock Out with a little push. “Bring me home a trophy!”   
  
Knock Out stumbled a little, but quickly caught his balance. He was amused, despite himself, as Breakdown danced back to the crowd. He lifted his arms to Snarl, who helped tug him onto the barricade in front of Snarl. His legs dangling over the edge, Breakdown’s visor shone with enthusiasm.   
  
Unfairly adorable. It was amazing how much a little guidance could help a mech emerge from his shell.   
  
Knock Out wandered back to his lane feeling ridiculously happy. Perhaps even a little dopey. Primus, what those two did to him.   
  
Someone shifted in his periphery.   
  
“Double the luck, huh?” commented the young racer in the lane next to Knock Out. He was a flashy thing – red and orange and yellow. “That’s not fair.”   
  
Knock Out smirked. “Guess you’ll just have to rely on your own four wheels then.”   
  
“Don’t worry. I’m sure I can take you. Though if you want to share some of that luck, I won’t mind.” The garishly painted mech winked.   
  
The final chime echoed over the track, everyone moving into starting position with only the pre-race jitters to fill the air.   
  
“Sorry, but I think I’ll keep it all to myself,” Knock Out said with a laugh. Those two handsome mechs were his, and he wasn’t one to share.   
  
The brat’s spoiler flicked up and down. “Shame. Guess I’ll just have to settle for that second place trophy.”   
  
Knock Out winked. He could throw the mech that much of a tease. “Have fun ogling my taillights, hot stuff.”   
  
“It’s Hot Rod, thank you very much.” Hot Rod’s smirk would have meant a fine night in the berth, if Knock Out wasn’t taken twice over. “And we’ll see.” He shifted to alt-mode, revealing that the strange swirls in his paint had been meant to reflect flames.   
  
But of course.   
  
Knock Out laughed and transformed as well, bouncing on his suspension and wriggling his tires. He settled into his alt-mode with grace, his engine revving as excitement overrode all else, even the anxiety.   
  
He was going to win, Knock Out decided as the memory of two good luck kisses sent a surge of heat through his engine.   
  
That trophy would be his.   
  


****


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairings: Optimus/Soundwave  
> Characters: Hot Rod, Jazz, Onslaught, Blast Off, Charlie Burns, Kade Burns, Dani Burns, Graham Burns, Cody Burns, Heatwave, Boulder, Chase, Blades
> 
> “Unstoppable,” Sia
> 
> This chapter be another deserving of that M rating for NSFW. ;)

“Third place, huh? That’s not so bad.”   
  
The sudden voice from below – interrupting his sulking – made Hot Rod startle from where he perched on a roof. It sent his spark to hammering in his chest, and he scrambled to catch himself.   
  
Primus. Some people were so rude.   
  
Hot Rod gathered the tattered remains of his dignity around him. His spoiler flicked down. “I lost to a medic. A Decepticon medic.” He ex-vented in disgust.   
  
He’d ridden Knock Out’s taillights down the entire track, but at the end, Knock Out had put on a burst of speed and left him in the grit.   
  
Maybe there was something to those damn good luck kisses after all. What kind of world was this where a Decepticon could snag himself two adorable partners, and Hot Rod couldn’t even find one? A slagstorm of a world, that’s what.   
  
“Technically, I guess it’s second place, if ya count the fact everyone knew Blurr was gonna snag first,” the voice replied as someone pulled onto the roof next to Hot Rod without so much as a gasp or a show of effort.   
  
Hot Rod, of course, recognized him on sight. He should have known Jazz by his voice, but the shock had chased away any hope of logical thinking.   
  
“Sir,” he greeted, and scrambled to try and stand, greet Jazz properly as Kup had taught him to. “Sorry, I didn’t realize--”  
  
It was Jazz’s turn to snort. “Sir,” he repeated. “Ain’t no one called me that in ages. Don’t do it again. And sit, I don’t need all of that ceremony.”   
  
Hot Rod sat, albeit carefully. It was a matter of balance. “Uh, what should I call you then?”   
  
“Jazz is my name, last I checked.” Jazz plopped down next to him and stretched his arms over his head. Cables twanged and plating creaked. “Ahh, this is a good view you picked out. Great minds think alike, eh?”   
  
“I guess.” Hot Rod blinked as Jazz made himself comfortable, straightening his legs out and propping his arms behind him. Balance was effortless for him. Of course. “Do you want me to go or…?”  
  
“If I’d wanted ya to go, I wouldn’t have climbed up here in the first place. Unless you don’t want company.” Jazz grinned, his visor sparkling, seemingly unaware of the danger Hot Rod knew lurked in the compact lines of his frame.   
  
Hot Rod tried to smile. It came out lopsided. “It’s okay,” he replied, honestly. “I could actually use the company.”   
  
“Thought I recognized another lonely soul.” Jazz’s feet wiggled, a casual act that seemed intentional. Look at me, I’m not dangerous, I wiggle my feet, too. “What’s your sickness?”   
  
Hot Rod blinked. “What?” He drew his knees up, wrapped his arms around them. It made balancing easier.   
  
“Me? It’s a bit of a broken spark.” Jazz gestured toward his chassis with a thumb before returning his arm behind his back, propping himself upright. “Makes the nights cold, you know. What about you?”   
  
Oh.   
  
“Uh.” Hot Rod scratched at his chin, embarrassment peeking around the edges. Like frag he’d admit the humiliating truth to someone as awesome as Jazz. “Nothing like you. I mean, I’ve never really been close to anyone like that.”   
  
“Shame.”   
  
“I guess.” Hot Rod shrugged and shifted his gaze to the celebration festival several stories below them, lanterns and street lights illuminating the shopping lane and the now quiet Grand Strand. “Helps me avoid the broken part.”   
  
“You got a point.” Jazz abruptly threw his hands into the air, like he was punching it, and fell backward, splayed out entirely casual over the roof. “Eh. You’re young. You’ve got time.” He folded his arms behind his head, his sprawl lazy and redolent.   
  
More than a little erotic, truth be told. Maybe that was intentional.   
  
“What about you?” Hot Rod asked.   
  
“Me? Oh, I’ll be fine. I always land on my feet.” There was something off about Jazz’s grin, lazy though it was, and the wink seemed reflexive.   
  
Hot Rod grinned anyway. “I know.” He glanced at Jazz peripherally, his optics lingering on shiny armor and the glint of cables peeking from his seams. There was something about the jut of that bumper Hot Rod really wanted to explore. “They tell stories about you.”   
  
Jazz perked up a little, the light in his visor brightening. “Good ones?”   
  
“Depends who’s telling.”   
  
Jazz laughed. “Well, it’s all true. Every bit of it.” He drew up a leg and folded the other over his knee, letting his foot bounce freely, as if he didn’t have a care in the world.   
  
“Even Springer’s?” Hot Rod prompted, just to see if that would spur some kind of reaction.   
  
Jazz snorted, and his visor flashed an amused pale blue. “Eh. Difference of opinion.” He smiled, and this time it was all denta, a couple of them looking like they’d been filed down from sharpness – like Drift’s. “He thought he could take me down. I decided otherwise.”   
  
Hot Rod hummed a laugh. It was a popular story among the Wreckers, though one that often sent Springer off into a scowl and sulk session that Kup had to smooth over. Springer was really to blame, if you asked Hot Rod. He could stand to be taken down a step or two. There was confidence, and then there was arrogance, and Springer tended to edge more toward the latter.   
  
“I would’ve paid to see that,” Hot Rod mused aloud.   
  
Jazz slanted a look at him. “He’s your brother, right?”   
  
Hot Rod tilted his head back and looked up at the dark sky, stars whizzing past, perfectly visible with the very thin atmosphere Cybertron claimed. “Yeah. Doesn’t mean he can’t be a jerk sometimes though.”   
  
“He the reason you’re hiding up on a roof?”   
  
Damn. They were right about how perceptive Jazz was.   
  
“I’m not hiding,” Hot Rod retorted with a flick of his spoiler. He straightened out his legs, trying to pull off nonchalance. “I’m--”  
  
“--avoiding,” Jazz interrupted.   
  
“Sure. Call it that.” Hot Rod huffed a ventilation and scrubbed at the roof with his heelstrut, old metal flaking up beneath his scraping. “I’m just, you know, not a brat who needs protecting anymore.”   
  
“You’ll always be that to him, I bet. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t trust you.” Jazz flopped back upright, like it was impossible for him to sit still, and the motion brought him closer to Hot Rod, their thighs nearly brushing.   
  
Hot Rod shrugged. “Maybe.” He didn’t really want to talk about Springer. That discussion – argument really – was a cloud hanging over his head, dulling his enjoyment of the evening.   
  
Jazz nudged him with a shoulder, a small shock passing between them where their armor touched. “Cheer up, Roddy. It’s a pretty night, you got a great view, and if I do say so myself, one hot piece of aft for company. So it ain’t all bad.”   
  
Despite himself, Hot Rod laughed. Jazz’s sheer gall was entertaining. “Think highly of yourself, do you?”   
  
“Just saying what’s true.” Another wink and a shoulder nudge and Jazz’s field spilled over his, warm and charged, with a hint of invitation.   
  
Hot Rod had heard stories, and not all of them were about Jazz kicking aft. Some of them were about the things he could do in the berth. Things Hot Rod didn’t even know were possible and sounded a little impossible, truth be told. Didn’t mean he didn’t want to find out for himself though.   
  
For science.   
  
“Uh huh,” Hot Rod said, and scrubbed the back of his neck, deciding to go for broke. Being bold was never a problem for him. “So if, by chance, after the fireworks were over, would you wanna head back to my place to make some fireworks of our own?”   
  
Jazz’s head swiveled toward him, his visor bright, lips quivering before he burst into laughter and draped himself on Hot Rod’s side. “Oh, mech,” he said, in between giggles. “I like you. I like you a lot.”   
  
“Is that a yes or no?” Hot Rod hovered around bemusement and offense.   
  
“It’s a yes,” Jazz said as his hand slid up Hot Rod’s back, playing with the joint of his spoiler. “That’s a frag yes. Show me some fireworks, baby.”   
  
Baby. Hot Rod could only assume that was some kind of human phrase. Whatever. Jazz had spent a lot of time on Earth after all. Lots of the Autobots from Optimus’ crew spouted out weird vernacular like that. Most of Ultra Magnus’ crew and the new arrivals had just gotten used to it.   
  
Frag, Hot Rod caught Kup griping about not catching any fish the other day, whatever that meant. Hot Rod had teased him about going native. Kup had playfully cuffed him over the head.   
  
“Good.” Hot Rod slung an arm over Jazz’s shoulder, shivering as a hot and fast tingle of charge surged through Jazz’s field and cascaded over his own. “But first, I don’t wanna miss the show. I hear it’s gonna be a big one.”   
  
“If Wheeljack’s in charge, you can bet your aft it is.” Jazz laughed, and his tone turned gleeful, as his free hand slid across Hot Rod’s belly. “But nothing like the show I’m gonna give ya later.”   
  
It was Hot Rod’s turn to laugh, and once he started, he couldn’t stop. It was all so… so absurd. He and Jazz sitting on a rooftop, hiding from their woes, making sexual innuendo out of fireworks.   
  
It was ridiculous.   
  
It was wonderful.   
  
It was a much better end to the night than the way the day had started.   
  
Who knew?  
  


~

  
  
Onslaught woke from a stasis nap and the first thing he checked was their trajectory – right on target, as it should be. It was a habit, however, to consult navigation first and foremost. He then consulted his chronometer, comparing it against relative time and the passage of time on New Cybertron.   
  
A thought occurred to him.   
  
“We’re going to miss the celebration,” he realized aloud.   
  
“I doubt anyone will notice, save Vortex, and only so he can make a cutting remark.”   
  
The comment was all around him, but emerged from the console in front of him as well, deep and sonorous as it vibrated through the walls. Given that said voice belonged to the vessel currently transporting Onslaught and his cargo, this came as no surprise.   
  
Onslaught’s fingers danced over the console, though there was really no need. “You have a point.”   
  
“Of course I do.” Some might call Blast Off’s tone superior. Onslaught had grown used to the haughty edge of it.   
  
Spend enough time with your spark tangentially bonded to four other mechs, and you get used to their quirks. Sometimes, you adopt them for your own.   
  
Onslaught leaned back into the chair as it reclined to accommodate his comfortable slump. Haughty though Blast Off might be, but he anticipated Onslaught’s needs well.   
  
“Besides, with the cargo we’re carrying, no one will care that we are overdue.”   
  
“We’re carrying?” Blast Off repeated, sounding as though he was on the route to quite the snit, one that would involve long, awkward silences for the duration of the trip.   
  
Onslaught was glad that the visor and facemask hid his expression, and kept his field carefully tamped to avoid Blast Off sensing it. “Yes, you’re hauling it, but we both found it.”   
  
Blast Off’s harrumph sent a gust through the vents, stirring the usually still atmosphere in the cabin. “Just so we’re clear.”   
  
Amusement trickled into Onslaught’s field, enough that he allowed Blast Off to sense it. “I’m sure Octane will be glad you’ve returned.”   
  
The entire cabin shuddered. “Do not test me, Onslaught,” Blast Off warned in a louder, deeper voice that rattled everything in the cockpit. “Else I’ll leave you stranded in space.”   
  
Onslaught’s gaze shifted to the windscreen, currently opaque as Blast Off’s irritation paid itself in petty ways. “And how will you explain my absence?”   
  
“Airlock accident,” his companion replied, completely blithe, almost as if he’d thought about it before. “Couldn’t be helped. Alas.”   
  
Onslaught chuckled and the enclosure of Blast Off’s field dipped into amusement. “You’re sparkless.”   
  
Amusement that suddenly went ice-cold and withdrawn, falling behind an iron shutter. “I am, after all, a shuttle.”   
  
Damn.   
  
Onslaught cycled a ventilation and scraped a hand down his face. Upsetting Blast Off had not been his intention. The comment had been made in jest, but sometimes, one could touch on a raw wound without meaning to. As Onslaught had just done.   
  
“… Forgive me,” Onslaught said after a long moment. “I only meant to tease.”   
  
Blast Off’s sigh gusted through the vents, stirring the plastifilm taped to the console, handwritten coordinates to their most-recent find. “I know,” he conceded, apology in his tone as well. “There are times I believe I have put such things behind me. And there are times it comes back with a vengeance.”   
  
Onslaught sat up straight, sending a pulse of reassurance through his field. “Well, it’s a new Cybertron. We can make sure those old prejudices of the past never return.”   
  
Like so many things that needed to die with the Cybertron of old, the way shuttles like Blast Off had been treated was one of them. Perhaps it wasn’t so bad for other shuttles in other cities, but for Blast Off, who had been sparked in Perihex, shuttles were degraded for their natural alt-modes.   
  
Any being whose spark-given alt-mode was meant to be used by other sentient beings was treated poorly. Blast Off was considered lesser, because his form was meant to haul and transport, and he could unspace enough mass to carry passengers. He would have never risen above his station as transport mech. He wasn’t allowed to vote, own property, and was forced to pledge his services to whichever owner paid the most for him, and paid his property fees.   
  
In short, he was a slave, and due to the laws, couldn’t escape the life his sparking had given him. He couldn’t flee Perihex. No other city-state would have harbored him, except perhaps Kaon in the midst of stirrings of war, or other darker, more dangerous places.   
  
Joining the Decepticons had been a matter of course. Blast Off had killed his owner at the time, and fled for Tesaurus, where Megatron had been gathering forces. Blast Off was marked then, traitor and murderer. Had the Decepticons lost the war, Blast Off would’ve been executed on sight by the first member of the Elite Guard to recognize him.   
  
No, such things were better left in the past. Now, shuttles were valuable. They were rare. They were treated with the utmost respect. Blast Off had to obey no one, save his own whims, especially now that Megatron’s heinous coding was gone.   
  
“We will make it a better world,” Onslaught added, feeling outraged on Blast Off’s behalf, because Onslaught knew the bonds of slavery all too well. “We have that power now. We have that leverage. We will do what we must.”   
  
“One can hope,” came Blast Off’s reply, deep and echoing all around him.   
  
Onslaught steepled his fingers together. “And if not,” he said, “we can always return to war. You know as well as I do that there are mechs in all three factions who are itching for things to return to that simpler time.”   
  
“I don’t want war.”   
  
“Neither do I. But I’ll not let old Cybertron infect the new either.” Onslaught lowered his hands, resting them on the arms of his chair. “I’d sooner watch it burn.”   
  
Blast Off’s sonorous hum was tacit agreement. In this, they were one. Partners, not romantic for Blast Off had no interest in it, but partners who trusted nonetheless.   
  
“We’ll be home soon,” Blast Off said after a moment, his tone much lighter than before. “Perhaps even in time to catch the fireworks.”   
  
Had Onslaught a mouth, he would have grinned. “Sounds good to me.”   
  


~

  
  
The feed ran nonstop, a live cut of all the celebrations raging over New Cybertron. Well, all the things they felt the humans were allowed to see anyway.   
  
Cody couldn’t wait for the fireworks. Wheeljack said they were going to be amazing, and Cody believed him. Especially since he’d seen Wheeljack and Doc Greene giggling together over something.   
  
He hoped New Cybertron had it’s own rescue team because they might need it. He also hoped Griffin Rock managed to stay out of trouble long enough for Cody and his family to enjoy every second of the broadcast. Sure, it was being recorded in case they missed anything, but that wasn’t the same.   
  
Cody sighed and leaned on the back of the chair. He wanted to visit New Cybertron so badly. The chance to visit another planet? He couldn’t pass that up.   
  
“Graham, how much longer will it take to make the safety suits?”   
  
Behind him, Graham chuckled. “No sooner than the last time you asked me, Cody.” He had his head bent over his tablet, stylus darting over the screen. “They’ll be ready when they’re ready. Safety first.”   
  
Cody sighed again.   
  
It was dangerous, he knew. Cybertron didn’t have an atmosphere really, and what it did have was still poisoned from all the war’s fallout. Plus, there were all kinds of mechs roaming around, venting all kinds of fumes, and Optimus Prime wouldn’t let them take any kind of unnecessary risks. It was dangerous for humans, not just because they might get stepped on.   
  
It was already something of a miracle that they’d survived the Decepticon attack and bombardment of Earth over six years ago. A miracle and a little scientific ingenuity by way of Doc Greene’s protective dome. Thanks to him, Griffin Rock – and their sister tech cities – had not only been safe, but hidden from the Decepticons.   
  
When the Autobots returned, there had been a long and lengthy debate as to whether or not the surviving humans should contact them. Many thought that Cybertronians were too dangerous no matter what badge they wore. Remaining hidden forever wasn’t an option though. Griffin Rock especially had figured that if they didn’t stand up and shout, the Cybertronians might try and claim Earth.   
  
No one wanted that.   
  
So they’d tentatively reached out to the small group of mechs poking around Earth. Cody had met Hound and Trailbreaker – and much later, Ravage. He met Bumblebee and Rumble, too. He’d been a little uneasy around the Decepticons at first, but Griffin Rock wasn’t without its own defense mechanisms.   
  
Once Griffin Rock was sure the Autobots wouldn’t be a threat, they reached out to the other surviving cities. Optimus Prime himself came to Griffin Rock and declared that Earth belonged to the humans, and the Cybertronians would only stick around to help rebuild what the Decepticons had destroyed. Oh, and trade for the raw materials they might need to rebuild their own planet, too.   
  
There wasn’t really a President or world leader to tell them they couldn’t. Or that they could even. But the few mayors and governors and princes and chieftains from across the planet had voted and the majority sided with the Autobots.   
  
Cody had been thrilled. He liked the Autobots. He’d met them before once. Or, well, his siblings had. Wheeljack had been here when Cody was a toddler, because he’d heard about one of Doc Greene’s experiments and wanted to babble science at him for a while.   
  
Come to think of it, they probably had Wheeljack to thank for the complete success of their protective dome.   
  
Plus, the peace agreement between the Cybertronians and the humans had brought the rescue bots to Earth! Griffin Rock was the first town to get their own rescue team, and Cody’s family were the lucky ones partnered up with Heatwave and the other bots. Cody had the feeling it was partly because Mr. Prime wasn’t sure what else to do with the younger bots and how uneasy things were back on New Cybertron.   
  
Cody was happy for it though. It had been rough at first, but eventually, the bots realized Earth could be home, too.   
  
The floor beneath Cody rumbled. He clutched to the chair and tilted his head back and to the side, in time to see Heatwave come strutting into the room. Thump-thump-thump. The rescue bots were still practicing their ‘gentle walk’.   
  
“It’s still streaming?” Heatwave asked as he crouched to peer at the small screen. Well, small for a Cybertronian. Ridiculously huge for a human.   
  
“Yep.” Cody wriggled and the chair scooted forward by another foot. “You’ll take me there one day, right, Heatwave?”   
  
The red firebot tilted his head to the side. “If that protective gear’s one-hundred percent safe, I will.”   
  
Cody thumped his elbow on the back of the chair and cradled his chin in his palm. “Who needs gear when we have rescue bots? I know you guys will keep us safe.”   
  
“That’s not the point, Cody.” Thunk-thunk-thunk. Boulder now, shorter than Heatwave, but way heavier. His footsteps made Cody’s teeth rattle. “There are dozens of things that could go wrong. The tiniest mistake could mean you or your family could get hurt. And none of us want that.”   
  
Cody sighed as loud as he possibly could. “I know.”   
  
Onscreen, the camera was panning over a huge open area, where Cybertronians of all shapes and sizes were dancing. There was a mecha-shark and an Autobot singing and playing instruments on stage. The music came through the speakers, but Cody had the feeling it sounded terrible compared to what it would sound like live.   
  
Someday, he’d get to go.   
  
“Don’t worry, kiddo, we’ll get there someday.” Dani’s hand ruffled his hair, and Cody didn’t even have time to duck.   
  
He hadn’t heard her coming. The bots were kind of noisy, even when they were just standing there. They tended to creak and rattle and hiss and clank. Cody had gotten used to it after the first couple months, but still. Noisy.   
  
“If this town can manage not to have an emergency for twenty-four hours,” Heatwave muttered with a snort.   
  
He sounded fond at least. Heatwave acted like he hated it here, but Cody knew otherwise. Heatwave and Kade were a lot alike. It was probably why they butted heads so much.   
  
Dani chuckled. “That’s the fun of living in Griffin Rock, Heatwave. It’s never dull here.”   
  
“I fail to see what sharpness has anything to do with it,” Chase offered, coming into view with a thump-clank-thump.   
  
“Geez, Chase. Try adding a thesaurus to your collection,” Blades said, trailing along on Chase’s heels, his rotors jittering on his back. “Don’t you know that humans have like three different meanings for everything?” He held up a hand and started counting things off on his fingers. “Carpools have nothing to do with swimming and don’t always mean cars. You don’t swim in tidepools but fish do. And playing pool involves a big green table!”   
  
Blades threw his hands into the air. “It’s a miracle they can have any kind of conversation and understand each other.”   
  
Cody giggled. “You get used to it.”   
  
“Do not forget, Blades. You’re only talking about English,” Chase said with a waggle of his finger. “There are numerous other languages as well.”   
  
Blades made a sound of aggravation, one foot stomping the ground and making his rotors waggle.   
  
Boulder laughed. “I can’t wait to learn them all,” he said and looked longingly toward the shelf of books, all a bit too small for him to easily hold. “Humans are fascinating. I only wish I’d gotten to know them sooner.”   
  
“Yeah, well, we all know who’s to blame for that,” Heatwave muttered.   
  
Silence rippled through the room. Cody clutched the back of the chair. None of them needed to say who Heatwave meant. They all knew it. Megatron’s name was as bad to say on Earth as Voldemort right now.   
  
“Say, uh, aren’t the fireworks starting soon?” Graham asked into the quiet, and just like that, the tension snapped and everything was back to normal.   
  
Phew.   
  
“I can’t wait,” Cody said with an excited wiggle in his chair. “Wheeljack said they are going to be like nothing we’ve ever seen before!”   
  
Graham chuckled. “I believe it. The scientific advancements that we’ve achieved with Cybertronian assistance is--”  
  
“Yawwwwwwwn.” Kade flopped onto the couch, faking a hand over his mouth. “No nerd talk in the bunker, Graham. Not when there’s a party going on.” He folded his arms behind his head and took up every inch of space on the couch, even crossing his booted feet. His dirty boots.   
  
“Get your feet off the furniture, son.” Dad came in, last as always, because he wanted to make sure everything was secure and routed to the emergency line through their comms.   
  
Kade grumbled but made room on the couch so Dad could sit down. Dani flopped on Dad’s other side, and Boulder was nice enough to turn up the volume a bit more so they could all hear better.   
  
With any luck, Griffin Rock would be peaceful the rest of the night, and they could enjoy watching New Cybertron’s festival without any more interruptions. Even Mrs. Neederlander knew better than to call about Mr. Pettypaws. She was probably in her own house with her own tv on. Most of Griffin Rock was tuned in to the broadcast.   
  
Cody grinned and leaned on the back of the chair.   
  
All of his family, new and old, was here.   
  
The night couldn’t get any better than this.   
  
Well, unless he got to go to Cybertron soon.   
  


~

  
  
The dark wrapped around them, broken only by the emergency lights running along the baseboard, and the ambient light of the city pouring through the open window. There wasn’t a breeze, not on New Cybertron, but Optimus could still detect background noise – laughter, chatter, music in the distance.   
  
The celebration was still going strong. Soon, the fireworks would light the night, signaling the official end of the festival, but Optimus doubted the crowd would disperse so quickly. There was too much fun to be had. Too much revelry. Too much of everything they’d all thought they’d never have again.   
  
Fortunately, for Optimus, all he could have wanted was currently beneath him, comfortably sprawled out across their shared berth, his visor a dim glow and his facemask wisely retracted.   
  
“What will they say about us leaving the party early?” Optimus wondered aloud as he leaned down to nuzzle Soundwave’s cheek with his own, deeply in-venting the scent of his partner, as Soundwave’s field stroked over his, warm with affection.   
  
Soundwave’s hands slid up his back, fingers gentle as they dipped into seams and traced the lines of his plating. “Business, not theirs.”   
  
Optimus laughed softly. “Then that is the excuse I will give.” He bent forward, knees digging into the berth, his hands braced to either side of Soundwave’s shoulders. He nuzzled Soundwave’s cheeks, feeling the warm ex-vents against his face.   
  
“Besides,” Optimus murmured as Soundwave’s hands moved to cup his aft before sliding back up his back again, “our view here is just as good as it would be out there.”   
  
“Affirmative,” Soundwave rumbled. His field reached out to Optimus, heavy with need, crackling with heat.   
  
Optimus felt it beneath his aft, the rising desire in Soundwave’s panel. But he held himself back, he always did. Both out of respect for Optimus, and because Soundwave had an authority kink a mile wide. He liked to be told when he could release himself.   
  
Optimus would admit, only in the dark and quiet, that he secretly thrilled at how much power he could wield over Soundwave. Respectfully, of course. He had only as much power as Soundwave gave him.   
  
Optimus’ lips ghosted over the curve of Soundwave’s jaw. He rolled his hips, stirring the heat between them. “But you knew that already, didn’t you?” he murmured.   
  
“Privacy sought,” Soundwave replied, one hand stroking up Optimus’ back, the other curving over his aft before dipping between his thighs. A finger rubbed over Optimus’ panel gently, feeling the heat gathered there.   
  
Lubricant built behind Optimus’ panel. His calipers clicked on nothing, and his ceiling node throbbed, desperate for attention. There was something painfully erotic about curling here together, exchanging soft kisses and delicate touches, drawing each other toward a slow, slow arousing need.   
  
Soundwave was a master of it, as though he’d studied Optimus’ frame design to discover each and every erotic zone.   
  
Optimus had to learn the hard way, the fun way, exploring every inch of Soundwave’s frame by hand. He’d learned where Soundwave was ticklish and where he wasn’t. The spots that made him shake and shiver, and the ones that did little.   
  
And he learned how much Soundwave loved to kiss. How he enjoyed the press of lips, the careful slide of a glossa, the exchange of ex-vents.   
  
Which was fortunate, because Optimus enjoyed kissing as well. So he brought his mouth to Soundwave’s, brushed their lips together.   
  
“We have so little privacy,” he murmured against Soundwave’s mouth as he rocked his hips, tiny circular motions that stirred vibrations into their arrays. “We should capitalize on what we have now.”   
  
Soundwave hummed in agreement, and then moaned as Optimus sealed his lips over Soundwave’s, deepening the kiss, tasting the treats they’d been sharing all evening. Soundwave was not much for sweets, but the tart, tangy goodies they’d found at one of the Neutral’s carts had been a hit.   
  
He’d eaten a whole box of them before they realized. They’d gone back for a second box, just so Optimus could try one. He wasn’t very fond of them, but didn’t fail to notice the second box vanish into Soundwave’s subspace.   
  
He had a culinary weakness after all.   
  
It was absolutely adorable and had made Optimus only fall further in love at the sight.   
  
The kiss deepened, glossas tangling together, his own stroking the inside of Soundwave’s mouth. He felt the tremble of Soundwave’s fingers on him, the blast of heat rising from Soundwave’s frame as tertiary vents opened to circulate air. Soundwave’s field was a rising and falling tide of want, buffeting Optimus like a warm gust of wind.   
  
Optimus trailed away from the kiss, nuzzling into Soundwave’s intake. His partner obediently tipped his head back, revealing the vulnerable cables for Optimus to nibble on. This was a sensitive spot, he’d learned, and a single lick from him could make Soundwave shudder. He suspected it had something to do with trust.   
  
“Open for me, Soundwave,” Optimus purred, his aft grinding down on Soundwave’s panel in secondary request.   
  
Soundwave’s right hand slid up Optimus’ frame, a bare brush of touch, before he cupped Optimus’ face, sweeping his thumb over Optimus’ cheek. “Optimus sure?” he asked, even as a visible shudder rippled over his armor, lust pouring like liquid heat from his frame. He struggled to hold himself back, charge gathering in the seams of his armor.   
  
“Of course,” Optimus murmured and nuzzled Soundwave’s intake, lips teasing around thick cables as if to prove how much he trusted Soundwave. The consideration would never fail to make him feel safe. “For you, always.”   
  
A rumble started in Soundwave’s chassis and rattled out through his frame. His arms wrapped around Optimus’ back, holding him close, as Soundwave’s panels snapped open and his spike jutted against Optimus’ aft. The head of it left a swath of pre-fluid behind, marking Optimus’ armor.   
  
Optimus moaned, his hips rolling down, as he bared his valve and rode the length of Soundwave’s spike with it. Not penetration, not quite, but teasing his rim with the hardness of his partner, tantalizing those delicate outer nodes.   
  
Soundwave gasped beneath him, head tilted back, that rattling rumble deepening into a tune, almost like that lullaby from years past, only with a more erotic cant. It made arousal roar through Optimus, lubricant dripping slick and hot from his valve, painting Soundwave’s spike in a wet sheen. His calipers rippled on nothing, and his own spike throbbed, eager to be freed.   
  
Optimus dragged his mouth back to Soundwave’s, briefly content in this, the rock and grind of their hips together, arousal building to a crescendo between them. Soundwave’s hands roamed his frame with intensity, touching every sensor nexus determinedly.   
  
Soundwave’s field fell over his, warm and tingling, and he made an urgent sound in his intake as his spikehead rubbed over Optimus’ valve rim again, and lubricant was sloppy between them. Optimus hummed, his knees pressing in Soundwave’s sides, his denta leaving sharp nips against Soundwave’s cables.   
  
“You can enter me, Soundwave,” he purred, a thrill racing up his spinal strut at the subtle command and permission all at once.   
  
Hands flexed where they pressed at his mid-back. A shudder ran over Soundwave’s plating, a wave of static falling in it’s wake. One palm smoothed down to Optimus’ aft, encouraging with the subtlest of pressures, and Soundwave thrust up as Optimus rocked down.   
  
Contact.   
  
They moaned in unison, Optimus panting as he rested his forehead on Soundwave’s shoulder, hands fisting the berthcovers. Soundwave sank up into him in one stroke, sending waves of ecstasy through Optimus’ valve which fluttered madly, sensors feeding charge into Soundwave’s spike at a rapid pace.   
  
Primus.   
  
Optimus shivered as his valve fluttered and clamped in alternate bursts, his nodes singing at the touch of Soundwave’s spike, lubricant so slick and sloppy that it conducted the charge all too well. He shifted, only a little, and Soundwave’s spikehead nudged over his ceiling node, sending a sharp jolt up Optimus’ spinal strut that turned his limbs to jelly.   
  
Heat wafted up at him from below. Soundwave was silent, if one didn’t know what to listen for, the quiet clicks of him trying to muffle his cries of pleasure, the trembling urgency in his field as he waited for Optimus to give a sign he was ready to move forward.   
  
Waiting, always waiting, considerate at cost to himself.   
  
“Soundwave,” Optimus murmured, his lips finding Soundwave’s audial as he rolled his hips, grinding Soundwave deep. “ _Please_.”   
  
That exhaled request stirred Soundwave into action. He loosed a sound that was somehow both a growl and a keen. His hands cupped Optimus’ hips, both firm and gentle, and then the world spun around Optimus, his entire self surrounded by Soundwave – frame and field both.   
  
His back hit the plush surface of the berth. His arms wound around Soundwave’s neck, dragging his partner down for a deep kiss, and his ankles crossed behind Soundwave’s thighs. Soundwave braced his weight with one hand, but the other remained on Optimus’ hip, holding him careful for each slow and dragging thrust.   
  
Optimus moaned, arousal and pleasure making him dizzy as Soundwave moved into him, slow and steady, taking great care to touch upon each and every node in Optimus’ valve. His thrusts were deliberate, aimed, and his mouth even more so as he peppered Optimus’ face in kisses and a new song rose in his chassis.   
  
Optimus’ world spun into a blur of color and sensation, a mixture of sound and silence, the caress of Soundwave’s field as erotic as the press of Soundwave’s spike. They moved together in a dance they were still learning the rhythm of, but it was no less pleasurable for it. Optimus moaned softly, into each kiss, and the noises Soundwave made in his intake were both reverent and needy.   
  
Overload came not in a burst, but in an ever-growing wave of pleasure, each one stronger and more fiery than the last. Color danced behind Optimus’ optics, his spark whirling and surging toward the protection of his chassis. He clutched at Soundwave, fingers locked into seams on his partner’s armor, as his hips moved urgently, milking Soundwave’s spike for every last burst of charge.   
  
The hot surge of Soundwave’s overload rushing over his sensitive nodes sent Optimus into another wave of ecstasy, his entire frame drawing taut as a bow as his head tossed back and he moaned. Sounds that were quickly swallowed by Soundwave’s lips as they kissed, fierce at first, then slow and savoring. Soft little presses of lips over the curve of Optimus’ jaw and the gentle rock of their frames together in the aftermath.   
  
Optimus hummed into the kisses, his hands stroking the angular planes of Soundwave’s armor, his chestplate pressed to the cool transsteel of Soundwave’s dock. “There’s something to be said about alone time,” he murmured.   
  
Soundwave’s laugh was a soft huff over his lips. “More will be had soon enough,” he replied and shifted his weight, sliding out of Optimus before he pressed a kiss to Optimus’ forehead. “Rest. Return momentarily.”   
  
And then he was gone, taking the heat of his frame with him, not that he went far. Just to the adjoining washrack, where he retrieved a packet of clean mesh cloths, one of them dampened.   
  
“So considerate,” Optimus said with a smile as Soundwave returned, every action careful and loving as he cleaned the both of their frames free of sticky residue. “I think I’ll keep you.”   
  
Soundwave chuckled as he tossed the used cloths into a bin for cleaning and climbed back onto the berth, pulling Optimus into his arms as he did so. It took some finagling, but they’d learned how to notch their frames together for maximum contact.   
  
As it was, Optimus was able to rest his head on the cool transsteel of Soundwave’s dock, feeling the strong vibrations of his spark thrumming the material. He ex-vented quietly, his own spark dancing in his own chamber.   
  
Outside, the music had gone quiet.   
  
“It’s almost time for the last act, I suppose,” Optimus murmured as he lifted his gaze to the window. The sky was dark and unbroken by any building – for now.  
  
Eventually, reconstruction would restore Cybertron’s skyline. Perhaps not any time soon, but eventually.   
  
Soundwave’s hand stroked down his back, from his shoulders to his aft, like a feline which needed stroking. It was too soothing for Optimus to protest.   
  
“Did you ever think it would come to this?” Optimus asked, more pondering out loud than a true question. “That the end of the war would bring us here? We’ve lost almost everything.”   
  
“Gained, also.”   
  
Optimus hummed in agreement. “Yes, this is true.” His ex-vents fogged the transsteel of Soundwave’s dock, where the Decepticon badge had once been so prominent.   
  
Their fields synced almost immediately, humming to the same frequency. He listened to Soundwave’s steady vents, his frame warm with the aftershocks of their lovemaking. He doubted they were through for the night, but this was nice, too. Just laying together in the dim, peaceful and serene.   
  
And then the fireworks began. Bright bursts of color right outside the window. Optimus shifted to see them better, and felt Soundwave stir to do the same. Explosions of multiple colors lit the night, the loud booms rattling windows and making the berth tremble. Of course, with Wheeljack as the lead explosives expert, each color-laced shell was bigger and brighter and more elaborate than the one before.   
  
Shapes and symbols, colors beyond the visible spectrum of most species even. Optimus could hear the cheering between the pops and booms, and smiled as the echoes of the bright display splashed across his armor and glittered inside the room.   
  
What a perfect night.   
  
Optimus cycled a ventilation and snuggled further into his partner’s arms. “I promise, Soundwave,” he murmured. “There will come a time when I can set aside this mantle of leadership and be yours alone.”   
  
Soundwave’s embrace tightened around him. One arm slid up, hand stroking up over Optimus’ back, over his head, before curving around his face, tilting him up to look at Soundwave, the bright of the fireworks reflecting in Soundwave’s visor.   
  
“Soundwave will wait,” he said, both earnest and sincere, as much a vow as the one Optimus had just given. “I will wait forever.”   
  
A promise then.   
  
To each other.   
  
Optimus smiled and shifted, leaning up to capture Soundwave’s lips with his own. Someday, he vowed, even to himself.   
  
He would have this forever.   
  


****

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: And that’s all folks! Of Undaunted, at any rate. I have a couple more oneshots set in the Crown the Empire universe to post, and I’m knocking around ideas for a sequel with another time skip, so who knows what the future might bring, eh? Though any sequels will be a while away cause I want to knock out some WIPs first. 
> 
> If there's a specific curiosity you have and want to know whether I'll address it in the sequel, feel free to ask! If I don't plan on it, I'll answer it here and now. :)
> 
> Anywho, hope you enjoyed, thanks for reading, and as always, feedback is both welcome and appreciated. Until next time!

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is very welcome and appreciated.


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